The divorce was finalized four months later. Because of a prenuptial agreement we had signed when we were young and had nothing, she got very little from the sale of the house. I kept custody of Lily, and we moved into a small, bright townhouse on the other side of Toledo.

It was not a triumphant victory. There was no big celebration. Mostly, I just drove Lily to school every morning, made her pasta for dinner, and learned how to build a life that didn’t involve leaving every Sunday night.

Three years later, I was sitting at our small kitchen table, sorting through mail while Lily worked on a school project. She was nine now, her hair longer, her spelling much better.

She was coloring a picture of our new townhouse, her colored pencils scattered across the wood table. I looked over her shoulder, watching her draw the small front porch and the two windows.

She drew herself standing near the front door, holding a small dog we had adopted the summer before. Then, she drew me standing right next to her, my hand resting on her shoulder.

“Is that our new house?” I asked, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.

Lily smiled, her pencil carefully shading the roof. “Yes,” she said, without looking up. “I only draw the people who stay, Daddy.”

I closed my eyes for a second, the smell of the kitchen filled with the scent of warm garlic bread. I opened them, looked at the drawing, and realized the quiet was finally starting to feel like home.