I didn't sleep particularly well that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Todd's paper.
The two circles around the number.
The basement window.
Sadie's little pink socks.
By Sunday morning, I had convinced myself that I needed to look at other possibilities.
I wasn't ready to make a decision.
But I needed to know what was available.
I made coffee and sat at the kitchen table.
Dale's old chair was still pushed slightly away from the table.
I hadn't moved it since he died.
There were two bills beside my cup.
Electricity and telephone.
I opened my handbag and took out Todd's paper.
Then I found an old envelope and wrote down my monthly income.
$1,640.
I subtracted the proposed rent.
$800.
That left $840.
Then I started thinking about everything else.
Food.
Medicine.
Gasoline.
Car insurance.
Clothing.
Unexpected repairs.
There wasn't much room for mistakes.
And I hadn't even included the cost of buying things for the grandchildren.
I looked at the paper again.
The number hadn't changed.
But something had.
I no longer felt obligated to accept it.
On Monday, I drove into town.
I needed a few groceries, and I had been meaning to stop at the feed store.
It was four blocks from Michelle's neighborhood.
Mr. Brandt owned the place.
He had been there longer than I could remember.
Dale used to buy supplies from him when we first moved to the farm.
Mr. Brandt had a habit of writing notices by hand and taping them beside the cash register.
Usually they advertised used equipment or somebody's missing dog.
For the previous three weeks, one particular notice had caught my eye.
It was a small piece of white paper.
The handwriting was uneven.
Small house available.
Two rooms and bathroom.
Ask Brandt.
I had read it several times.
But I had always assumed it was meant for somebody younger.
Somebody who didn't have much furniture.
Somebody who could move without worrying about where everything would go.
That morning, I finally asked.
"Mr. Brandt, is that little house still available?"
He looked up from the register.
"Which one?"
"The two-room place you've got written on that notice."
His face brightened.
"Oh, yes. Nobody's taken it yet."
I hesitated.
"Would it be possible to have a look?"
"Sure. Give me a minute."
He reached beneath the counter and found a set of keys.
Then he put on his jacket.
We drove separately.
The house was behind the grain elevator, on a quiet street where most of the houses were older.
I had passed it before.
I just hadn't paid much attention.
It was smaller than the farmhouse.
Much smaller.
But there was a porch swing beside the front door.
The siding was white.
A single step led to the entrance.
I liked that immediately.
My knees weren't what they used to be.
Mr. Brandt unlocked the door.
"Go ahead."
I stepped inside.
The living room was small, but it had enough space for a sofa and a little table.
There was a kitchen at the back.
Two bedrooms, although one was small enough that I would probably use it for storage.
And a bathroom.
Nothing fancy.
Nothing new.
But everything looked clean.
The windows needed washing.
There was some dust along the baseboards.
Harvest was underway, and corn dust seemed to find its way into every corner of town.
I walked toward the front window.
From there, I could see the grain trucks waiting near the elevator.
They moved slowly.
One after another.
I had watched those trucks from the farmhouse for years.
The sound was familiar.
Mr. Brandt stood behind me.
"It's not much," he said.
I turned around.
"How much?"
"Five hundred and fifty a month."
I looked at him.
"Does that include electricity?"
"No. Electricity is separate."
I walked into the kitchen.
There was a small counter beside the sink.
I imagined putting my coffee maker there.
My blue mug.
The little sugar bowl Dale had bought me at a church sale.
I imagined opening the front door and knowing nobody else had to approve of who came inside.
I imagined sitting on the porch swing in the evening.
Mr. Brandt cleared his throat.
"I know it's nothing special, Judy."
I looked toward the entrance.
It was only one step.
There was a proper front door.
And there was a back door too.
"That's all right," I told him. "It has everything I need."
He smiled.
"You sure?"
I nodded.
For the first time that weekend, I felt my shoulders relax.
Then he explained the deposit.
I listened carefully.
He gave me the amount and the date he would need it.
I asked about the heating system.
I asked whether the plumbing worked properly.
I asked about the lease.
Twenty-two years of handling accounts had taught me not to sign anything before reading it.
Mr. Brandt answered every question.
He even showed me where the electrical panel was.
I liked that.
I liked knowing where things were.
Before leaving, I stood in the living room again.
It was empty.
But empty didn't mean lonely.
Sometimes empty simply meant there was room to begin.
"I'll take it," I said.
Mr. Brandt looked surprised.
"Really?"
"Yes."
He nodded.
"All right, then."
We arranged the paperwork.
I drove to my bank and returned with the deposit check.
When I handed it to him, I felt nervous.
Not because I thought I was making a mistake.
Because I was making a decision without asking my daughter what she thought.
That was new for me.
Mr. Brandt handed me two keys attached to a small metal ring.
"Front and back."
I closed my fingers around them.
They were ordinary keys.
Nothing special.
But I stood there looking at them longer than I expected.
I had spent most of my adult life sharing a home with someone.
First with Dale.
Then, after he died, I had stayed in the farmhouse because the Olson family had allowed it.
Now I had chosen a place entirely on my own.
I could hardly believe it.
That afternoon, I returned to the little house.
I unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
The rooms were quiet.
I walked from the kitchen to the bedroom.
Then back again.
I opened the back door.
A little breeze moved through the house.
I stood there for a while.
No one told me where to put my shoes.
No one asked me what I planned to do with the room.
No one had a list of responsibilities waiting for me.
I sat on the porch swing.
It creaked when I moved.
I smiled.
It wasn't a beautiful house.
But it was mine to rent.
And that mattered.
Over the next few days, I began thinking about what I would bring.
My bed.
Two lamps.
The kitchen table.
A small cabinet.
Dale's photograph.
I didn't have room for everything.
That meant making choices.
I found myself holding objects and asking whether I truly needed them.
Some things went into boxes.
Others went into bags for donation.
I kept Dale's work jacket.
I kept the blue mug.
And I kept a photograph of Michelle when she was six years old.
She was sitting on Dale's shoulders in that picture.
Her arms were stretched out like she was flying.
I remembered how she used to laugh when he carried her around the yard.
I didn't want to forget that little girl just because the grown woman had disappointed me.
A few days later, I called the moving company.
They gave me a date.
I wrote it on the calendar.
Then I looked at the first of November.
There wasn't much time.
But at least I knew where I was going.
I had a roof.
A front door.
Two keys.
And $550 rent instead of $800.
For the first time since Dale died, I felt that perhaps I could manage without somebody making decisions for me.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: I Kept My New Address to Myself for Nine Days, Until My Son-in-Law Recognized My Buick and My Daughter Called With a Question
My Daughter Had a Price for Giving Her Widowed Mother a Place to Sleep, and I Had to Decide What My Years Were Worth
Part 2 of 20
