I slept for ninety minutes, then filled the green folder one last time. The first section held the rental contract, which ended Christmas morning because nobody had authorized me to extend it. The second held receipts for seven years of holiday deposits, groceries, train tickets, and repairs I had paid without asking for reimbursement. The third held a blank planning sheet labeled next year. I did not total the receipts or leave an angry note. I wrote that I loved them, would not be available, and trusted them to decide what celebration they could organize together.

At the airport, Corinne called six times. Dean sent a message asking for the house key. I told him it was in the folder and that checkout was ten. He replied with three question marks, as if punctuation could move the deadline. My mother left a voicemail saying families teased one another because they were close. She sounded less concerned about the joke than about the empty space my labor had left. I almost exchanged the ticket. Then the gate agent announced boarding, and I walked down the jet bridge before I could volunteer myself back into place.

Lisbon met me with rain and a taxi driver who could not find the workshop address. I arrived at a narrow guesthouse after midnight, one day earlier than my reservation because I had also mistaken the workshop start. The owner, Celina, had a tiny attic room available beneath a sloped roof. Its window overlooked laundry lines and wet tile. I expected the wrong weekend to keep punishing me. Instead Celina brought soup and asked what I had come to make. Nobody had asked me that in years. I said bowls, although the answer rising in my throat was a life that did not require an emergency before I could leave.