Now I was standing outside a cottage barely larger than the first floor of my old house.
I owned almost nothing.
And I had never felt safer.
I bought a small bed.
A kettle.
Two plates.
One saucepan.
A secondhand armchair.
A yellow mug.
A little lamp.
My belongings fit into one van.
When the door closed that first night, I turned the lock myself.
No one else had a key.
I stood there with my hand on the deadbolt.
Then I cried.
Not because I was lonely.
Because I was home.
By February, I had finished knitting a deep green cardigan.
I wore it on a rainy afternoon while sitting beside the window with a cup of peppermint tea.
My wallet rested on the table.
The same worn wallet I had snapped shut at the supermarket.
