Chapter 17
October. Brooke misses a payment.
Not ideal. But paid. I note it in my spreadsheet: October — LATE (split payment).
Because alone, nobody bleeds it away while I sleep.
The real estate agent is a woman named Patricia who wears coral lipstick and talks fast. She shows me the unit on a Saturday afternoon — my day off.
"Kitchen was renovated in 2024. New countertops, new appliances. Bathroom's original but in good shape. The balcony faces the courtyard — you get morning light."
I walk through. I count rooms: kitchen, living room, two bedrooms, one bathroom. Five spaces. Nine windows. The kitchen counter is quartz — solid, cool when I press my palm against it. The bedroom has two closets.
I've never lived alone in a place I own. I went from my parents' house to college dorms to shared apartments to Marco. Every home has had someone else's presence embedded in it.
This would be mine. Just mine.
"You're pre-approved?" Patricia asks.
"I will be." I've already started the paperwork with the credit union. My credit score is 761 — excellent, because I've never missed a payment on anything in my life. Sylvia said pre-approval would come within a week.
"It's a great unit. Won't last long in this market."
"I know." I've been watching listings since August. They sell in two to three weeks. I need to be ready.
I drive home and make an offer plan. Down payment: $21,800 (10%). Closing costs: approximately $6,500. Total needed: $28,300. I have $31,130. I can do it NOW.
But I wait. I wait for the pre-approval letter. I wait for the inspection. I wait because rushing costs money — I've learned this from three years of careful saving and four months of watching it disappear.
The pre-approval arrives October 22nd.
I make the offer October 23rd. $215,000 — $3,000 under asking. Patricia shakes her head. "They won't take under asking in this market."
"Try."
They counter at $217,000. I accept. Under contract.
Closing date: November 28th. Five weeks.
I sit in my car after signing the contract and I count backward from the discovery. June 9th — the $8,000. To now — October 23rd. One hundred and thirty-six days. In 136 days I went from discovering my husband had emptied our savings to signing a contract on a home of my own.
One hundred and thirty-six days. Nineteen weeks. Four and a half months.
My counting works differently now. Before, every number was a measure of what was taken. Now every number is a measure of what I'm building. The math is the same — addition, subtraction, multiplication. But the direction changed.
I tell Rosie first. She screams. Actually screams — I have to hold the phone away from my ear.
"You're BUYING a place?"
"Under contract. Closing November 28th."
"NINA."
"Two-bedroom condo. Willow Drive. South-facing windows."
"I'm coming over. I'm bringing wine. Right now."
She comes. She brings wine. We drink one glass each and she makes me describe every room twice. She asks about the bathroom ("original but nice"), the kitchen ("quartz counters, actually good appliances"), the balcony ("morning light, courtyard view"), and the parking ("assigned spot, number 7").
"You did this alone," she says.
"Yes."
"In four months."
"Four and a half."
"After he took everything."
"He didn't take everything. He took the number. I made it again."
She hugs me. Hard. The kind of hug that's half celebration and half grief — because she knows what it cost. The money. The time. The trust. The sleep. A friendship. A marriage. The plan I had versus the plan I built instead.
After she leaves I clean the wine glasses. Two. Rinse the bottle. One. Put everything away.
Then I sit at my table and I open the banking app one final time tonight.
$31,130. Minus the earnest money ($2,000 already transferred to escrow). Remaining: $29,130. Enough.
More than enough.
The bedtime ritual. Teeth, alarm, dark.
I get into bed. I think about November 28th — thirty-six days away. I count them.
And for the first time in months, the counting makes me smile.