I returned to the apartment two days later.
I had thought about it all night.
The kitchen was small, but it had a window.
The bedroom had enough space for my bed and a wardrobe.
There was even a narrow balcony where I could put a few flowerpots.
It was not the kind of place Emily would have chosen.
She liked large rooms, expensive furniture, and everything matching.
I wanted somewhere I could breathe.
I asked the landlord a few more questions.
Then I signed the agreement.
When I received the keys, I held them in my palm for a long time.
They were ordinary keys.
Nothing special.
But they opened a door that nobody else could decide whether I deserved to walk through.
I called a taxi and returned to the hotel.
My suitcase was still beside the wardrobe.
I packed my belongings again, checking that the wedding photograph was protected.
The rosary was inside a small cloth bag.
My mother's blanket was folded carefully.
I checked the folder containing my financial records.
Everything was there.
I did not want to lose a single document.
That afternoon, I moved into the apartment.
The landlord had left the place clean.
There were no curtains in the bedroom.
The kitchen cupboards were empty.
The refrigerator was small.
I stood in the middle of the living room and looked around.
I had no sofa.
No dining table.
No television.
Only my suitcase, my coffee maker, and a few bags.
Still, I smiled.
I placed the coffee maker on the kitchen counter.
Then I unpacked the cups I had brought from the old house.
One had a small chip near the handle.
It had belonged to my husband.
I washed it and placed it beside the coffee maker.
Next, I unpacked the wedding photograph.
I put it on a shelf near the window.
My husband looked exactly as he had on our wedding day.
Young.
Hopeful.
A little nervous.
I touched the frame.
"We have another home," I whispered.
I did not know whether I was speaking to him or myself.
The following morning, I bought groceries.
Bread.
Eggs.
Milk.
Tea.
A few vegetables.
I bought only what I needed.
For years, I had shopped according to the number of people living in Daniel's house.
I knew how much milk the children drank.
I knew which vegetables Emily preferred.
I knew which snacks Michael wanted after school.
Now I stood in the supermarket wondering what one woman needed.
It felt strange.
I bought a small packet of coffee.
Then I returned home.
I prepared breakfast.
Two slices of toast.
One egg.
A cup of tea.
I sat at the little kitchen counter and ate slowly.
Nobody asked me to make another plate.
Nobody needed their lunch packed.
Nobody was waiting for me to finish.
I washed my cup afterward.
Then I left it to dry.
That small act made me smile.
I could decide when to clean something.
I could decide when to rest.
I could decide what I wanted for lunch.
I had not realized how much I missed those choices.
Around noon, Daniel called.
"Mom, where are you staying now?"
I told him I had rented a small apartment.
He became quiet.
"You moved already?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
I looked at the flowerpot I had placed near the window.
"I wanted to arrange things first."
He sighed.
"Emily says we should have helped you find somewhere."
"I appreciate the thought."
"Can we come and see the apartment?"
I hesitated.
"Not yet, Daniel."
He sounded disappointed.
"Mom, we're still your family."
"I know."
"Then why are you keeping us away?"
I took a breath.
"I am not keeping you away forever. I am giving myself time."
He did not respond.
I told him I would call when I was ready.
After we hung up, I sat by the window.
I wondered whether I was being too strict.
Then I remembered the dinner.
I remembered the message about the food.
And I remembered the letter beside Daniel's pillow.
I had not left because of one unpleasant evening.
I had left because that evening showed me how little anyone had noticed my unhappiness.
Later that week, I visited the small market near my apartment.
I bought a few flowers.
Nothing expensive.
Just yellow ones.
I placed them in a glass jar on the kitchen counter.
The room looked warmer.
I also bought a small notebook.
I wanted to record my expenses.
The old habit remained.
I wrote down the rent.
The groceries.
The electricity estimate.
The amount I had spent on the apartment.
Then I placed the notebook beside my financial folder.
I was not going to lose track of my money.
I had worked too hard for it.
That evening, Michael sent me a voice message.
"Grandma, I hope you like your new house."
His voice made me laugh.
I replied with a short recording.
"I do, sweetheart. I have a little kitchen, and I am going to make it very nice."
He asked whether he could visit.
I told him I would arrange something with his parents.
I wanted to see him.
I wanted to see his sibling.
But I also wanted the adults to understand that my new home was not another place where I would automatically become the household helper.
It was my home.
And I intended to keep it that way.
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: The Financial Papers Forced Us to Discuss What My Family Had Preferred to Leave Unspoken for Three Years
I Thought Being Useful to My Family Meant I Would Always Have a Place at Their Table
Part 9 of 20
