My name is Lucy. I’m thirty-two years old, and until about a year ago, I truly believed I had built a quiet, decent life. Not flashy. Not something you’d post about online to impress strangers. Just stable. I had a steady job as a billing coordinator for a dental group outside Milwaukee, the kind of work that required attention to detail and rewarded routine. I knew which spreadsheets needed double-checking, which insurance companies would reject claims for no real reason, and which coworkers needed coffee before conversation. I had a small, comfortable house with creaky stairs and a backyard that filled with dandelions every spring. And I had a husband who kissed my forehead every morning before work and slipped handwritten notes into my lunch bag—sometimes sweet, sometimes silly, sometimes just a heart drawn in pen. I liked predictability. I liked folding warm socks straight from the dryer and taking lunch-hour walks even when it was cold enough to sting my cheeks. I liked coming home to Oliver calling out, “Hi, beautiful,” even when I still had acne cream on my face and my hair in a messy knot.