I saw the house again. For the first time I saw the yard and there was a party and the trees were red and yellow and it was cold and there were candles on the table and a brick ledge everyone stood in front of to take a picture, but I wasn’t there. Instead there was a different woman, tall and thin and she was wearing the earrings I would have worn but a different dress because blue wouldn’t have looked nice against her fairer skin. It was her house and her yard and her friends that were laughing, everyone with their arms around each other, and the man was there wearing a suit she had picked out for him. Not the one I would have chose. I wasn’t there but I saw it all, her colored curtains and frosty windows. She was living in my house, my perfect, dream house, and drinking red wine out of my wedding-gift glasses and had her arms around my well-dressed friends. She was living my life. My perfect, imaginary life, and that was the moment I realized I have never wanted anything more. The woman is nice, I’m sure of it. She is not undeserving of this party, or these colored curtains, or this perfect October night. But I am not happy for her. I do not smile weakly and fold my hands quietly into my lap. I do not concede this loss. The only flag I fly will be the red and white striped, star spangled banner year-long from my balcony. In this, I am as iron. It is not her life. It is mine. The house is my dream. It belongs to me. My hands are capable fists. And I will fight for it.