And yet, here stood Kenji, 48, divorced, downsized, and carrying two cardboard boxes labeled Office Stuff and Life Remains .

“No. I’m moving into the spare room. The one without rocket ships.”

He grated the daikon. Too hard—he scraped his knuckle. Haruko didn’t rush to help. She just sat at the table, knitting a scarf no one had asked for.

“You were five.”

The sliding door to the children’s room hadn’t been opened in three years. Not since the youngest daughter, Mio, left for university in Tokyo. Now it was a museum of plastic pencil boards, faded Pokémon posters, and a bunk bed that sighed with dust.