I sometimes wonder, usually after a particularly long day, what the statistical probability was that I'd end up here. Not *here* in this chair at 2 AM, but... this life. The impeccable lawn, the Subaru in the driveway, the quiet pride my husband takes in his retirement carpentry. I remember him, flour-dusted and laughing, showing me sketches for bakery display cases — the scent of yeast, the promise of something sweet. It’s a strange thing, this retrospective analysis, observing the fork in the road so clearly only decades after the fact, knowing I chose the sensible route. And honestly? No regrets, not really. But sometimes... sometimes that thought still surfaces, insistent, like a chronic ache you just learn to live with.