He checked his tablet.
“A couple celebrating forty years of marriage.”
“Perfect.”
As he walked away, I looked through the glass doors toward Fifth Avenue.
A year earlier, I had believed my last name was a burden.
Now I understood something different.
My last name wasn’t a burden.
It was a home.
And when a woman finally reclaims her home, she stops asking for permission to exist inside it.
She opens the door herself.
