She did it on a Sunday.
Not because Sunday had any particular quality that made it the right day. It was more that Sunday was when the house had the specific kind of quiet that was different from weekday quiet, the slower rhythm of people who were not moving toward anything in particular, and she had been carrying the intention for long enough that the first morning that had that quality, she sat down and did it.
She got up before anyone else.
She made her coffee.
She went to the workroom.
She took out a piece of paper, not official paper, not the kind with any header or institutional mark on it, just plain paper, the kind she used for notes to herself, and she put it on the table in front of her and she looked at it for a while.
She thought about her father.
