When my flight was canceled that afternoon, I felt a strange mix of irritation and relief. The airline’s announcement was vague, full of apologies and technical jargon that meant nothing to frustrated passengers, and as I stood in line to rebook, I found myself thinking less about the inconvenience and more about the unexpected gift of time. I had been preparing for weeks for this business trip, running on coffee and deadlines, barely seeing my husband, Ethan, except in passing. We had become experts at coexisting without really connecting, exchanging quick updates and tired smiles before collapsing into separate corners of exhaustion. So when I finally gave up on the airline and climbed into a cab back home, I imagined his surprise, his crooked grin when he saw me walk in early, the simple comfort of a quiet dinner together. I rehearsed how I would joke about the cancellation, how we would order takeout and maybe even talk, really talk, the way we used to. I carried that image with me all the way to our building, through the elevator ride, down the hallway, and into the moment I slid my key into the lock. I was thinking about how life sometimes rearranges plans for a reason when I opened the door and saw a woman standing in my hallway wearing my robe, holding my favorite mug, her hair damp as if she had just stepped out of my shower.