Everything fit perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle finally in their right places.
Jason and his crew worked quickly, and by mid-afternoon, the truck was empty and my apartment was full.
“You need anything else, ma’am?” Jason asked as they prepared to leave.
“No, dear. You’ve all been wonderful. Thank you.”
I tipped them generously, pressing cash into each of their hands despite their protests. They’d earned it. And more than that, they’d been kind. In my experience, kindness deserves to be rewarded.
After they left, I stood in the center of my living room and just breathed.
Silence surrounded me, but it was different from the silence in that house the day before. This wasn’t absence.
This was peace.
I started unpacking slowly, taking my time. I hung Harold’s photograph on the wall beside my television, right where I could see it from the sofa. In the picture, he was laughing at something, his eyes bright with joy. It had been taken at our fortieth anniversary party, just two years before he passed.
“Well, Harold,” I said softly to the picture, “we’re starting fresh. What do you think?”
Of course he didn’t answer, but I like to think he’d be proud.
I unpacked my dishes next, arranging them in the kitchen cabinets—my good china, the everyday plates, the mugs I’d collected over the years. Each one had a story, a memory attached to it. The teapot Harold had given me for our twenty-fifth anniversary went on the counter where I could see it every morning. It was white porcelain with delicate blue flowers painted on the sides, and even though I rarely used it, I loved looking at it.
Around 4:00 in the afternoon, I heard a knock on my door.
I opened it to find an older woman standing there, probably around my age, with short white curls and bright blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She held a covered dish in her hands.
“Hello,” she said cheerfully. “I’m Ruth from 2D down the hall. Patricia mentioned you were moving in today, and I thought you might appreciate something for dinner. Moving is exhausting.”
I felt my throat tighten unexpectedly at the kindness.
“That’s so thoughtful. Please come in.”
She stepped inside, looking around approvingly. “Oh, you’ve already got it feeling like home. That’s a talent.”
“Thank you. Would you like some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
“I’d love some.”
We sat at my small kitchen table and Ruth told me about the building—how the residents had a book club on Tuesdays, how there was a garden plot out back if I wanted to grow vegetables, how movie night in the community room was surprisingly well attended.
“It’s a good group of people here,” she said. “We look out for each other, but everyone respects privacy, too. You know, it’s a nice balance.”
“That sounds perfect.”
She stayed for half an hour, and by the time she left, I felt like I’d made my first friend.
That evening, I heated up the casserole Ruth had brought. It was chicken and rice—simple but delicious, seasoned just right. I ate it on my new sofa, watching the sun set through my window. The sky turned orange, then pink, then purple, colors bleeding into each other like watercolor paint. I could hear faint sounds from other apartments—televisions playing, someone’s laughter—the ordinary sounds of people living their lives.
But in my space, everything was quiet.
I washed my dish, dried it, put it away. Then I made myself a cup of tea in Harold’s teapot, carrying it to the balcony. The courtyard below was peaceful— a few benches arranged around a small fountain. Christmas lights had been strung in the trees, though they weren’t turned on yet. The air was cool but not cold, perfect for sitting outside with something warm to drink.
I sipped my tea and watched the stars begin to appear in the darkening sky.
My phone, which I’d left on the kitchen counter, began to buzz. I heard it through the open balcony door—a persistent vibration against the countertop—once, twice, three times. Then it stopped. Then it started again.
I took another sip of my tea, watching a bird land on the fountain’s edge.
The phone kept buzzing.
I smiled to myself, serene and unbothered, and turned my attention back to the sky. Whatever it was could wait.
For the first time in three years, I was exactly where I wanted to be, doing exactly what I wanted to do. And nothing—absolutely nothing—was going to disturb this moment.
Five days.
