Ten days after my C-section, my mother-in-law poured cold water over me because I wouldn’t get up and make breakfast while my husband watched.

For months, I had believed that was the image I would carry from the end of my marriage.

But sitting there in the April light, I realized it wasn’t.

I remembered the paperwork, yes.

The security officers.

The garbage bags scraping down the hallway.

My mother arriving from Hamilton with soup.

Mr. Okafor sitting at my table going through bank statements.

The courthouse.

Wade walking down the steps.

The nights I worked with Leo sleeping nearby.

The morning the Waterloo payment arrived.

All of it was part of what had happened.

But it wasn’t where my mind wanted to stay.

Leo let go of the coffee table again.

My mother leaned forward.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

He took another step.

Then another.

We both started laughing.

Not because anything dramatic had happened.

Because my son was learning to walk.

Because my mother was sitting on my rug in the coat I had finally been able to buy her, wearing the good wool socks she always saved for indoors.

Because morning light filled the condo I had once worked so hard to purchase.

Because the rooms were quiet without being lonely.

Leo dropped down again and reached for me.

I pulled him into my lap.

My mother sat beside us.

For a while, none of us moved.

That is the image I carry now when things get difficult.

Not cold water.

Not Wade’s smirk.

Not gambling debts.

Not the sound of luggage and garbage bags moving down a marble hallway.

I remember the three of us on the rug in the April light, watching Leo figure out how to walk.

All of us laughing.

All of us home.