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Laundry she could do. Tidying wasn’t a problem.

She made up her daughter’s bed with the summer duvet and the handmade quilt that said Florence.

She arranged Catty with his long legs crossed, his plush black arms open in a hug.

Maxi’s special toy was a sheep; she laid him on his side in the cot.

The colorful magnets went in one basket, the Duplo in another.

Upstairs, she made Zora’s bed with sheets she’d brought in from the clothesline.

They were warm and smelled of the sun. Her tired mind surveyed her luck—a home, the children, Adam. In so many ways, her dream.

Something was wrong with Coralie, something that set her apart—she couldn’t be in love, but she couldn’t be out of it either.

If she didn’t love, she was half a person.

But if she did love, she’d never be whole.

Her hands shook as she packed her bag. Mother, writer, worker, sister, friend, citizen, daughter, (sort of) wife.

If she could be one, perhaps she could manage.

Trying to be all, she found that she was none.

A high-summer night, still light outside—the seagulls soared and screamed.

She loved him so much, more than anything. But when Adam came home, she’d be gone.