I opened the book one more time. I looked at his handwriting. I realized that for all those years, I had been helping him police the world. I had been so proud of the work we did. I thought it meant something.

But it didn’t mean anything to the guy who installed the wiring. It didn’t mean anything to the bank. It didn’t mean anything to the inspector who was now walking out my door with his clipboard tucked under his arm.

I was sitting in a perfectly legal, perfectly safe, and completely destroyed house.

I looked at the empty outlet. I reached out and touched the plastic cover. It felt cold under my finger.

I realized I didn’t want the code to be perfect anymore. I just wanted my kitchen back. I just wanted my husband to be sitting across from me, drinking his coffee and complaining about the contractors he had to deal with.

I closed the book. I put it on the table.

The silence in the room was heavy. I realized I was the only one who cared about the rules. I was the only one who believed the code mattered. And in the end, that was exactly why I was sitting here alone.

I stood up and walked to the window. I looked out at the street. The contractor’s truck was long gone. The street was quiet. Everything was exactly the way it was before I called.

Except now, I knew.

I knew that being right was the loneliest thing in the world. I looked at the code book one last time. It was just paper and ink. It wasn’t Arthur. It was just a set of instructions for a life I didn’t have anymore.

I left the book on the table. I went into the living room and turned off the lights. I didn’t want to look at the kitchen anymore. I didn’t want to see the violations. I just wanted to go to sleep and pretend that for one more night, everything was still fine.

But I knew I wouldn’t sleep. The kitchen was waiting for me. It was waiting for me to fix it. And I had no idea how to do that.

I walked to my bedroom and shut the door. I could hear the house settling. It sounded like the wood was groaning under the weight of all those rules. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

I closed my eyes, but I kept seeing the outlet. I kept seeing the way the contractor looked at me. He didn’t see a woman who knew the code. He saw a nuisance. He saw someone who was in the way.

I had spent my whole life being the person who corrected the mistakes of others. I thought that made me strong. I thought it made me smart.

I was wrong. It just made me the person who was always left behind.