I drove home without turning on the radio.
The road was familiar.
I had traveled it hundreds of times, sometimes after visiting Hugh, sometimes after buying groceries, and sometimes after spending an afternoon with the grandchildren.
That evening, it felt longer.
I parked in front of my duplex.
For a while, I didn't get out.
My old Chevrolet made a small clicking sound as the engine cooled.
I could hear something moving inside my purse.
My pill organizer.
It had come loose from its little pocket and was rattling against my keys.
I reached inside and held it.
Then I sat there in the dark.
Seven hundred dollars.
I kept thinking about that number.
Not because I didn't understand money.
I understood money very well.
I had raised a family on a nurse's paycheck.
I knew how to stretch groceries.
I knew which bills had to be paid first.
I knew how to make an ordinary meal last two days without making anybody feel they were eating leftovers.
My husband and I had lived carefully.
We didn't have much, but we had enough.
And when he died, I learned to manage the household alone.
I never expected my retirement to be luxurious.
I only wanted a little peace.
A place where I could keep my dishes in my own cupboards.
A place where I could sit down after breakfast without somebody asking me to do something.
A place where I could sleep without listening for children running down the hallway.
I loved my grandchildren.
That wasn't the problem.
The problem was the way the offer had been presented.
Seven hundred dollars for a room that barely had space for a proper bed.
Seven hundred dollars from a woman living on fourteen hundred and eighty dollars.
And five days of childcare included as if my time had no value.
I finally opened the car door.
My knees complained when I stepped onto the pavement.
I carried my purse inside.
The duplex was quiet.
I had already started packing some things because I knew the deadline was coming.
There were boxes near the dining table.
Some were filled with dishes.
Others held books and small decorations I had collected over the years.
My husband's Army photograph still sat on the shelf.
I hadn't packed it yet.
I picked it up.
His picture had been taken years before I met him.
He looked young and serious, with his uniform neatly arranged.
I ran my thumb along the frame.
He had always believed that a person should have somewhere they could close the door and call their own.
We hadn't owned much.
But we had protected what we had.
I put the photograph back.
Then I went into the kitchen and made myself a little supper.
Nothing special.
I wasn't very hungry.
Afterward, I sat at the table with my bank statement.
I wrote down my monthly income.
Then I wrote down the expenses I could remember.
Electricity.
Phone.
Insurance.
Medicine.
Groceries.
Gas.
There wasn't much left to play with.
I wrote seven hundred on a separate piece of paper.
Then I wrote three children underneath it.
I stared at those words.
I had spent decades caring for other people.
I had never imagined I would reach an age when my own family would treat my time as something they could collect along with the rent.
I folded the paper and put it away.
I didn't sleep particularly well that night.
The next morning, I made coffee and started another box.
I washed the dishes I wanted to keep.
I wrapped my good plates in newspaper.
I placed my late husband's photograph in a small box with some old letters.
Everything had a place.
That was how I had always managed.
One thing at a time.
A few days later, I needed furnace filters.
I had almost forgotten about them.
The weather was changing, and I wanted to make sure I had the right size before I moved.
So I drove downtown to the hardware store.
Mr. Crenshaw owned it.
He had been there since I was still working as a nurse.
I remembered going into that store years earlier to buy things for the duplex.
My husband used to send me with a list.
He would write down the exact size of every screw and washer, then complain if I brought home the wrong one.
Mr. Crenshaw always helped me figure it out.
He was a widower now.
He still wore a bow tie on Sundays, and he had the same careful way of speaking that he had always had.
When I walked through the door, the little bell rang.
He looked up from behind the counter.
"Well, Tressie. Haven't seen you in a while."
"I need a furnace filter."
He came around the counter and helped me find the right size.
While he was checking the label, I noticed a small card pinned to the corkboard near the register.
It was handwritten.
The letters were uneven.
APARTMENT FOR RENT UPSTAIRS.
I read it twice.
Mr. Crenshaw noticed where I was looking.
"You interested?"
I hesitated.
"What's upstairs?"
"An apartment. Two rooms and a little kitchen."
He pointed toward the back of the store.
"There's an inside staircase. You don't have to climb around outside in the weather."
I looked at him.
"Is it available now?"
"It is."
I didn't ask why.
I was too busy thinking about the little window above the garage.
Mr. Crenshaw continued.
"Got proper windows, too. Nothing fancy, but it's clean and quiet."
I felt something loosen in my chest.
"How much are you asking?"
He told me.
I looked at him.
Then I asked him to repeat it.
He did.
It was less than the seven hundred dollars Hugh and Marlee wanted.
Considerably less.
I looked down at the furnace filter in my hands.
For the first time in several days, I felt as if I could breathe normally.
"Could I see it?"
"Sure. Come on."
He took me upstairs.
The staircase was inside the building.
I didn't have to hold on to an outside railing while worrying about the weather.
At the top, he opened the apartment door.
There were two rooms.
A little kitchen.
Real windows.
I stood quietly for a moment.
I could picture my dishes in the cupboards.
I could picture my quilt on the bed.
I could picture myself sitting near the window with a cup of coffee.
It wasn't a mansion.
It wasn't even particularly large.
But it was a place where I could live without having to explain why I wanted to make myself a sandwich.
I turned toward Mr. Crenshaw.
"I'd like to rent it."
He studied my face.
"Are you sure, Tressie?"
I nodded.
"I am."
He brought out the paperwork.
We went back downstairs.
I signed the lease right there on the paint counter.
My hand shook a little.
Not because I was uncertain.
Because I realized I had just made a decision for myself.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: I Found a New Apartment Behind a Hardware Store, but the Little Pink Notebook in My Car Changed Everything
My Son Offered Me a Place to Live, but the Price He Put on My Independence Was Something I Never Expected
Part 2 of 20
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