Two years later, Betty still hosted Sunday barbecues, but she bought eleven pounds of beef instead of thirty-three. Erica brought corn salad, Louisa brought brownies, Isabella poured iced tea, and Julian helped set the table while his little daughter Sophia chased butterflies in pink sneakers. Betty still packed leftovers, but only after everyone had eaten and only because she chose to offer them. That was the difference: no one arrived with empty hands and hidden expectations; no one treated her kindness like a supply cabinet. Under the string lights that evening, Tom asked if she regretted saying those three words. Betty thought of the red dress, the containers, the long silence, the apology, and Sophia’s small arms around her neck. “No,” she said. Because in asking them to leave, she had finally made room for the part of herself that deserved to stay.