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My friends call me a homing pigeon, always wanting to get back to my nest. It’s true. I make forays out into the world—weekends in New York, a quick trip to Miami, visits to Jamaica—but I am always very happy,indeed secretly relieved to get home, safe and alone in my nest.

The only problem is that my nest, my inner sanctum, is now a construction site, a mess of dust and boxes and lumber and paint cans. In a perhaps rash and impulsive but what I thought was an absolutely necessary move I am renovating my bedroom, bath and study—remaking what were once shared spaces (Not my study, that was always just for me. Steve had to have permission to enter) into a new space that will somehow confirm, reflect, make final my independent status.

For two months now I’ve been living like a college student in my tiny downstairs guest bedroom. I only go upstairs when the construction crew has left for the day. I walk around imagining what it will feel like when I move back in. I wonder what Steve would think of my renovation. Would he be angry or would he understand? His closet is gone—now part of my study. His sink is ripped out—replaced by a window seat. I hope I will be happy there.