The house in which we raised six children was finally empty, save for a stray Millennial or two. The SpongeBob SquarePants toys had gone to charity, the Barbie Dream House was gathering dust in the attic and there was no longer a car seat permanently strapped into my backseat.
As the Mrs. and I pushed toward 60, the growing stillness felt like a reward for the decades we spent chasing toddlers and scolding teenagers.
At least, I think that's her name. That's what it says on her birth certificate.
But at least once a day she tells me I'm wrong.