Robin parked on the street in front of her daughter’s house, a few houses down—close enough that no one would question it, far enough that no one could glance out the window and see her sitting there.

The car was still warm from the drive, but her hands were cool from the early evening air. She tucked them under her thighs and smiled at herself.

She still had a couple of minutes. If she were even a little late, someone would text. Where are you? She was always early.

This was her choice, whether they understood or not.

She tried the words in her head. Hey, guess what? I got into a master’s program in fiber arts. That didn’t sound quite right. Maybe: You know how I’ve always loved fiber arts… Something softer to start. She could picture their faces—surprised, maybe confused for a second, and then, she hoped, pleased.

She rubbed her right index finger with her thumb, feeling the small dent worn there over the years from the weight of scissors. She had always known there would be a season for this. Hands like hers were supposed to slow down, people said. Take it easy. Be careful.

She had never felt more ready.

She grabbed her pocketbook and stepped out into the stillness of the street.

As she walked toward the house, voices drifted through the door, happy chatter. Something smelled good, too. Garlic, maybe onions, in a pan. The sound and smell were warm and familiar.

She caught her reflection in the glass of the front door and paused. Hair, collar, the line of her mouth.

Not bad for sixty-nine, she thought. Not invisible either.

She drew in a breath and reached for the bell.

Scott flung the door open. “Here she is. We were about to send out a search party.”

“Two minutes early still counts,” she said.

She slipped off her coat and handed it to him.

“Come on in. Grab a seat,” he said. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

From the kitchen, Joy called out, “Is that Mom? Tell her the salad’s still a disaster!”

Scott grinned, draping her coat over the banister. “She’s been here twelve seconds.”

Robin smiled. “Same old, same old.”

Joy appeared, drying her hands on a towel, her hair slightly out of place—unusual for her.

“Hi, Mom. Sorry, I’m juggling three things at once. I was just about to call you for backup.”

Robin reached for the salad dressing and gave it a quick stir.

“There,” she said, turning the bowl slightly. “That should do it.”

Joy leaned over for a taste. “Way better.”

For a moment, no one needed anything.

Scott dropped ice into a glass. Clink. Clink.

The room settled.

Robin wiped her hands on a towel, her fingers lingering on the edge of the counter.

“Hey,” she said. “I have some news.”

“I got accepted into a master’s program in fiber arts.”

A small smile tugged at her mouth.

Joy paused. “Really?”

She set the towel down. “That’s big. When did you apply?”

Scott let out a breath. “Okay, that’s officially the coolest thing I’ve heard all week.”

“I applied last January,” Robin said. “Right after my birthday.”

Joy shifted. “Where is it?”

“Vermont,” Robin said. “It starts in September—it’s low-residency. I’d only be on campus a few times a year.”

Joy frowned slightly. “Would you drive for the residencies? Stay on campus? And… is Dad on board with this?”

“I’ll probably take Amtrak,” Robin said. “The residencies are only a few weeks at a time.”

She folded the towel once. “I haven’t told your dad yet. He’s still at Uncle Bob’s.”

The refrigerator hummed. Joy pressed her lips together, thinking.

Scott leaned back against the counter. “Well,” he said gently, “I think it’s amazing.”

Joy rocked her head back and forth. “It’s just… a lot to picture. You're going back to school.”

“I got tired of waiting for the right time,” Robin said.

“You’ve always made things,” Scott said. “I guess I just didn’t realize how serious it was for you.”

“I just stopped calling it a hobby,” Robin said.

Joy studied her. “What’s the curriculum like? What would you be learning?”

Robin let out a small breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “It’s a lot more than sewing. That’s what I’ve always done—mending, altering, making things people can use.”

“This is different,” she said. “I’ll be learning how to build the materials from the beginning. Spinning yarn from raw wool. Dyeing fibers. Weaving on looms.”

She watched their faces.

“It’s about texture and structure—and telling stories with cloth.”

“So you’d be making your own materials from scratch,” Joy said.

“Yes,” Robin said. “Starting with the wool itself.”

She smiled, almost shy now. “I’ve always worked with what was already there. This feels like… beginning at the beginning.”

Scott shook his head. “That’s kind of incredible, Mom.”

Joy looked at her for a long moment, her expression softer than before. “I guess I never really knew that’s what you wanted to do.”

“I always have, deep down,” Robin said. “I’ve just stopped pretending I have all the time in the world.”

For a moment, the three of them stood there in the warm kitchen, the smell of dinner drifting between them, something quiet and new settling into place.

Later that night, Robin stood in her kitchen with her hands resting on the cool counter.

For once, there was nothing else waiting to be done.

She turned her right hand over and pressed her thumb into the small dent on her finger. Tonight, it felt different. Not like wear. Like proof she wasn’t finished.

She opened her laptop and went to the Amtrak site.

September wasn’t that far away.

She closed the computer, not because she was unsure, but because she wasn’t in a hurry.

Robin turned off the kitchen light and went upstairs, already thinking about wool, and color, and the slow turning of a loom.