Chapter Thirty-One
Some truths arrive gently.
They don’t knock.
They don’t announce themselves.
They simply sit beside you one ordinary afternoon and wait to be noticed.
It happens on a Sunday.
Rain taps softly against the windows, the kind that doesn’t demand umbrellas or drama. Noah is reading on the couch, glasses slightly crooked, one foot tucked under the other. I’m at the kitchen table, editing a paragraph for longer than it deserves.
Nothing is wrong.
And that is the miracle.
I realize, suddenly, that my body is calm.
Not guarded.
Not alert.
Not preparing for impact.
Just… present.
For most of my life, peace felt temporary—like something you borrowed and returned quickly, afraid it would be taken back. But this peace doesn’t flinch. It doesn’t rush. It stays even when
