My skin tingles with liberation as I peel the swimsuit off. Stepping into the warm, slightly murky water, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It shocks me. I’ve never been an adult in this mirror, only a child. The last time I was reflected naked in this mirror, I was studying my chest for signs of development, wishing for breasts. Now I’m looking at stretch marks across my belly from birthing twins and seeing the droop in the full breasts that I once thought would never come. I sink down into the bath to escape the comparison.

Lying up to my neck in the warm water, I notice the white paint peeling in places from the shiplap walls and cobwebs clustered in the corners. The only sound is the tapping of bugs against the screen of the bathroom window—drawn by the light, fighting to get to it.

There’s a creak on the stairs and I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest and covering myself as best I can. Holding my breath, I listen, my head turned toward the sound. Only silence follows and I make myself relax, wondering if I’ll ever stop feeling so jumpy here.

After my bath, dressed in my warmest sweat shirt and sweatpants, I put a load of laundry on, hoping I’ll be able to get rid of the mustiness in the linens that have been sitting here in closets for almost thirty years.

With that done, I think about getting a glass of wine but choose water instead and take it back upstairs, leaving a reassuring trail of lights on behind me. I’m wide awake, as if it’s one thirty PM and not one thirty AM. I want to call the girls, but even with the three-hour time difference, I know they’ll be in bed. It’s a school night, and their dad runs a tight ship without me around.

Maybe to punish myself, or maybe just to get it over with, I decide to venture into May’s old room. The door has warped so much over time that I have to give it a good kick. It swings open dramatically, and a fist closes hard around my heart. Just like in my mother’s room, May’s scent is released from its cottage tomb—warm skin and cinnamon.

I try the light switch, but nothing happens. I try the lamp on the bedside table, and suddenly the room glows with warmth. It’s how I remember this room best—cozy, with sloped ceilings, like some annex room in a children’s novel.