“It is just that… did you not like something? We can exchange any piece for another.”
“No. Everything was perfect. I simply do not need it here anymore.”
It was strange to see how the house was emptying out, but with every piece of furniture that left, I felt lighter, as if I were stripping myself of an illusion that was never really mine. The workers took the new refrigerator, the microwave, the washing machine, even the paintings I had bought to bring life to the walls.
One of them asked me if they should also take the curtain rods.
“Yes. Take everything that is not glued to the wall.”
When they finished, the house remained completely empty. Only the white walls and the echo of my footsteps resonating in the empty rooms. I walked through every room one last time: the master bedroom, where I had dreamed of having my own space; the guest room, where I thought some relative would come to visit me; the third room that I had imagined as my little library. All empty. All echo.
I sat on the dining room floor and took a sheet of paper and a pen out of my purse. It was the same pen with which I had signed the purchase contract just a week ago. I wrote a letter, short but with every word chosen carefully.
Sarah, Linda, Robert, and Jessica,
This house was bought with the money from my forty years of work. Money I earned sewing from five in the morning until eight at night. Skipping meals to save every cent. Money I gathered by denying myself small luxuries for decades to fulfill this dream.
If you wanted a free house, you should have asked me before making the decision for me. The keys are on this letter. The house is yours now. Do what you want with it. But do not count on me to finance anyone else’s dreams.
With all the pain in my heart, but with a clear conscience,
Emily.
I left the keys on the letter in the exact center of what had been the living room. The metallic sound of the keys against the floor resonated through the entire empty house like a bell announcing the end of something.
I walked out without looking back. I closed the front door and walked to the street, where the taxi I had called was already waiting for me.
“Where to, ma’am?”
“To the city center. To the Plaza Hotel.”
“Do you have luggage?”
“No. I only carry what I need.”
During the ride, I did not cry. I did not regret it. I only felt a strange peace, like when you finish cleaning a deep wound. It hurts, but you know it was necessary.
At the hotel, I asked for a simple room. I just needed a place to think clearly about what I would do with the rest of my life. The receptionist, a young girl with a kind smile, looked at me with curiosity when I paid for a full week in cash.
“Are you going to be on vacation in the city, ma’am?”
“No, honey. I am starting a new life.”
Her eyes lit up with a mixture of curiosity and admiration, probably. It was not common to see a woman of my age talking about starting over.
“How exciting. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
I went up to the room and sat by the window overlooking the main square. It was a modest but clean room, with a single bed, a small desk, and a view that calmed me. People walked hurriedly in the square, each with their own problems, their own dreams. I wondered how many of them had been betrayed by those they loved most.
I opened the window to let in the fresh morning air. There was a bench under a large tree where an elderly man was feeding pigeons. He looked so serene, so at peace with himself. It had been years since I felt like that.
At a quarter to ten, my phone rang. It was a number I did not recognize.
“Mrs. Emily Johnson?”
“Yes, this is she.”
“This is David Miller. I am your neighbor from the new house. Well, your next-door neighbor.”
My heart sped up a little. What would the neighbor want?
“Good morning, Mr. David. How can I help you?”
