As she moved further inside, her eyes fell on the workshop at the back of the house. The door was ajar, and she could see the outlines of tools scattered across the counter and shelves. It was messy, but organized in a way that made sense for someone who knew how to work with their hands. There were faint markings on the walls, evidence of projects that had come before hers, waiting to be picked up again.
Her fingers tingled at the thought of what she could do here. Not just fix things, but create. Build something of her own. For once, there was no one telling her it wasn’t good enough. There was no one asking her to shrink herself, to become less than what she was.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, her breath steadying as she took it all in.
The next few days were a blur. Olivia spent hours cleaning, organizing, and planning. It felt strange to be doing things for herself—no one else to answer to, no one else’s opinions to consider.
She had never realized how much of herself she had given away over the years until now. It wasn’t just the physical labor of maintaining the house and caring for others. It was the emotional labor—the constant bending, the self-doubt, the quiet shrinking she had done to fit into a life that had never fully been hers.
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