“The ‘help’ is officially on strike,” I said. “You might want to learn how to use the washing machine. It’s the white box in the mudroom. It doesn’t take credit cards, just a little bit of effort.”

I walked out the door and into the crisp Indiana morning. As I backed my own car—the one I had paid for in full, in my own name—out of the driveway, I saw them through the kitchen window. They were arguing, Greg pointing at the papers and Ashley throwing her hands up in the air. For the first time in three years, their drama wasn’t my problem. I felt light. I felt visible. And most importantly, I felt like the mother of my own future again.

I drove toward Fishers to meet Ethan for a late breakfast, knowing that when I sat down at that table, I wouldn’t be “the help.” I would be a woman who finally knew her worth, and that was a currency no one could ever decline.