old, and one bedroom faced a neighbor’s brick wall.
It was mine.
I moved in on a bright Saturday morning with Priya, six cardboard boxes, two lamps, and the books that had spent most of my marriage stacked in Norma’s spare room.
We ate takeout on the living-room floor after the movers left.
At sunset, I walked through each room and opened every drawer.
There was no prescribed arrangement waiting for me.
No red-circled folder on the counter.
No one measuring my value by how much of their life I was willing to finance.
The first bill I paid after moving in was for a locksmith.
When the new keys were ready, I placed one on my ring and gave the spare to Priya.
Then I stood in my own kitchen, listening to the refrigerator click on in the silence.
This time, the quiet did not feel like a warning.
It felt like the sound of a door finally closing behind me.
