First she ignored me.
Then she became excessively pleasant, offering coffee and asking whether I needed groceries.
When that did not change the date, she became offended again.
“You are really making us spend thousands on temporary housing.”
I looked at her over my glasses.
“You spent three months making me pay for temporary housing with peace instead of money. I prefer your expense.”
She stopped asking.
Daniel found a furnished apartment available month to month fifteen minutes from his job. It was smaller than they wanted and had none of the marble counters Vanessa admired, but it had two bedrooms and a lease they could end when their renovation was finished.
On moving day, I stood in the doorway while boxes went out.
Daniel carried the last suitcase to the car, then came back inside.
“Are you sure you do not want help putting everything back?”
I looked around.
“Most of it is already back.”
He nodded.
Vanessa waited by the front door.
For a moment I thought she would leave without speaking.
Then she turned.
“I still think two weeks was harsh.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
I almost smiled.
“And I still think asking permission to use my kitchen was harsher. We do not have to agree.”
She stared at me.
Then, unexpectedly, some of the fight left her face.
“I did too much,” she said.
It was not an apology. Not yet.
“Yes,” I replied.
They left.
The silence afterward felt enormous.
I walked from room to room touching familiar things. The chipped ceramic bowl my husband bought at a county fair. The clock Daniel made in shop class. The dent in the hallway baseboard from the year he learned to ride a bicycle indoors despite very clear instructions not to.
At the bay window, I sat in the blue chair and cried.
