Behind it sat a detached cottage that had once belonged to her sister.
It had one bedroom.
A tiny kitchen.
A bathroom.
A narrow porch.
And a wide window facing rows of hydrangeas.
When Mrs. Pierce told me the rent, I asked her to repeat it.
It was less than half of what I had been contributing monthly at Melissa’s house.
I could afford it.
Comfortably.
After rent, medicine, groceries, transportation, and insurance, I would still have money left.
For the first time in years, my pension felt like enough.
I signed the lease.
Mrs. Pierce handed me one silver key.
Just one.
I stood on that little porch for a long time, staring at it.
Four years earlier, I had sold a three-bedroom home full of memories because I was terrified of being alone.
