I didn't drive straight back to the farmhouse.
Four blocks from the main road, I pulled into the feed store.
I needed a few things, though I can't remember now what I'd planned to buy.
I only remember the notice beside the cash register.
It had been there for weeks.
The paper was slightly curled at the corners, and the writing was done in thick black marker.
Small house available.
Two rooms and bathroom.
Ask Brandt.
I'd read it every time I stopped at the store.
Usually, I'd told myself it wasn't for me.
I was still living in the farmhouse.
I still had time.
There was no reason to worry before I needed to.
That afternoon, I stood in front of the notice and read it again.
Mr. Brandt was behind the counter, sorting receipts.
"Is that little house still available?" I asked.
He looked up.
"The one behind the elevator?"
I nodded.
"As far as I know. You want to take a look?"
I almost said no.
It was a strange thing to realize how easily I'd learned to turn down possibilities before anyone else could reject me.
Instead, I said yes.
Mr. Brandt found his keys, and I followed him outside.
We drove separately.
The house was on a quiet street behind the grain elevator, far enough from the main road that the passing traffic wasn't much trouble.
A few grain trucks were waiting to be weighed.
Corn dust had settled on the shoulders of the road and collected along the edges of the porch.
The house had white siding.
A porch swing hung near the front window.
There was one step at the entrance.
One.
I noticed that before I noticed anything else.
Mr. Brandt opened the door and stood aside.
"Don't expect anything fancy," he said.
I walked in.
The place was small, but the rooms had doors.
There was a little kitchen, a living area, a bedroom, and a bathroom.
The walls needed cleaning.
The floor had a few marks.
The whole house smelled closed up, like a place that hadn't been lived in for a while.
But the windows let in daylight.
I could see the front door from the kitchen.
I could picture myself sitting at a table with a cup of coffee without worrying about who might need the room next.
I could picture shutting the door at night.
Nobody would be waiting for me to finish a chore.
Nobody would need me to prove I deserved to be there.
It wasn't much.
But it was mine to consider.
"How much?" I asked.
"Five hundred and fifty a month," Mr. Brandt said. "You'll pay the electricity separately."
I walked through the rooms again.
I checked the bathroom faucet.
I opened a kitchen cupboard.
I looked at the bedroom window and imagined a small curtain there.
I wasn't looking for luxury.
I was looking for a place where I could live without being afraid of the next conversation.
Mr. Brandt waited by the doorway.
I turned toward him.
"I think this could work."
He nodded, as though he'd been expecting that answer.
"You sure? It's an older place."
"I've lived in an older farmhouse most of my life."
That made him smile.
I had a checkbook in my handbag.
I took it out and wrote the deposit check against the hood of my Buick.
My handwriting looked steadier than I felt.
Mr. Brandt gave me a receipt and handed over a small metal ring with two keys.
He showed me which key opened the front door and which one opened the back.
I held them in my palm.
They were ordinary keys.
Nothing special about them.
Still, I couldn't stop looking at them.
I had spent most of my adult life in places that belonged to someone else.
First, there had been the rented rooms Dale and I started out in.
Then the farmhouse provided through his job.
We had made those places comfortable.
We'd painted walls, repaired shelves, planted flowers, and raised Michelle.
But the house behind the grain elevator was different.
I'd chosen it.
I'd agreed to the rent.
I'd signed my name.
Nobody had handed me a list of duties in exchange for letting me stay.
I could close the front door and know it was mine to close.
For a moment, I felt lighter than I had in months.
Then I remembered Michelle.
I thought about telling her that evening.
I pictured the look on her face when she learned I'd found somewhere else.
I could already hear the questions.
Why hadn't I discussed it with her?
Why was I making decisions without the family?
Didn't I want to be close to my grandchildren?
I knew I would have answers.
I also knew those answers might hurt her.
So I put the keys in my handbag and drove back to the farmhouse.
That night, I took the paper Todd had given me out of my purse.
I laid it on the kitchen table.
The number was still there, dark and heavy against the white page.
I found a pencil and wrote the other amount beside it.
Five hundred and fifty.
Then I wrote the difference.
Two hundred and fifty dollars.
That was what I'd save every month on rent alone.
The electricity would cost extra, and I would have to buy my own groceries.
But I could decide what to eat.
I could decide when to turn on the lights.
I could keep whatever money remained for the things I needed.
I sat there for a long time, listening to the old refrigerator hum.
I wasn't trying to punish Michelle.
I wasn't trying to teach Todd a lesson.
I simply wanted a place where I could remain myself.
The next morning, I went back to the little house to measure the bedroom window.
I didn't own curtains that would fit.
I would need a few kitchen things, too.
I started making a list.
A small saucepan.
Dish towels.
Coffee.
A shower curtain.
The list was ordinary, and that comforted me.
For once, I was planning something that belonged to my own future.
I began moving a few boxes over the following days.
I didn't have much.
Clothes, books, some dishes, Dale's old photograph, and a wooden box containing papers I couldn't bring myself to throw away.
I carried things in my Buick a little at a time.
Each trip made the house feel more like mine.
The porch swing needed brushing off.
The windows needed washing.
The kitchen floor needed a proper scrub.
I did all of it myself.
My knees complained, so I took breaks.
I sat on the floor once while unpacking a box and laughed at myself because I couldn't remember why I'd put three different can openers in it.
There were small problems.
There always are.
But none of them required me to ask whether I was allowed to solve them.
When I turned the key in the front door after my last trip that week, I stood inside with my handbag hanging from one shoulder.
The rooms were still plain.
The walls still needed work.
Corn dust had already begun collecting along the porch rail.
I didn't care.
I locked the door and put the keys in the bowl beside the kitchen sink.
Then I made myself a cup of coffee.
I sat down at the little table and drank it in silence.
For the first time since Dale died, I wasn't waiting for someone else to decide what happened to me next.
I had made the decision myself.
I only had to tell my daughter.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: Nine Days of Silence Began With One Phone Call, One Accusation, and a Sentence I Could Not Take Back
The Number My Son-in-Law Circled Twice and the Question I Was Too Afraid to Answer at My Daughter’s Table
Part 2 of 20
