The letter from the GMC arrived on a Tuesday, tucked between a gas bill and a pizza flyer, its cream envelope weightier than the rest. I've read the single paragraph confirming my revalidation three times now, and each time my fingers hesitate at the same sentence — *no conditions attached* — as if the words might rearrange themselves into something I've spent thirteen years waiting to hear. The kettle whistled before I could decide whether relief is supposed to feel this quiet.