Chapter 7
Seven
Caroline
The new apartment was nothing like the house I’d left behind. The windows didn’t quite fit the frames, so every breeze sounded like a ghost whistling through the place. The floors creaked, the fridge rattled, and the neighbors above me seemed to pace in steel-toed boots.
The first night, I didn’t unpack anything but the bedding, my laptop, and a single plate. I ordered takeout and ate it cross-legged on the living room floor, watching reruns until my eyes blurred. When it got dark, I wandered from room to room, unable to settle.
The silence pressed in from every wall. It was different from the quiet in my old house, where silence was a sign that everything was safe and familiar. Here, it just felt empty.
I woke up before dawn, half-expecting to hear Richard’s snoring or Adele’s alarm blaring down the hall. But it was just me and the lonely hum of the radiator.
I made coffee, strong and bitter, and sat by the window. There wasn’t much to look at except the brick wall of the building next door, but I watched anyway, hoping for something—a bird, a stray cat, even a person—to break the monotony.
After an hour, I started unpacking. I set up the bathroom, hung up a few clothes, and put my photos on the windowsill. I left most of the boxes sealed. I couldn’t bear to see all the things that didn’t belong to me anymore.
By noon, the apartment looked almost lived-in, if you squinted. I ate lunch standing at the counter, then pulled out my laptop and started working on my résumé.
It had been years since I’d needed one. I’d volunteered, run the book club, even helped organize a charity gala or two, but none of it felt like real experience. I Googled “resume templates for women over 40” and spent an hour rewriting the same sentences until they sounded less pathetic.
When I finished, I stared at the screen and wondered if anyone would even read it.
I applied for five jobs that afternoon—two admin positions, one at a bakery, and a receptionist gig at a dentist’s office. The fifth was for a part-time assistant at a local nonprofit, which felt like the only place I might fit.
I sent the emails and shut the laptop, exhausted. I made dinner—a salad, because I couldn’t bring myself to cook for just one. I ate in silence, then washed the single plate and put it back in the cupboard.
I tried watching TV, but every show reminded me of something we used to watch together. So I turned it off and read a book instead.
When it got late, I climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling, listening to the radiator and the neighbors and the wind.
I wondered if Richard was thinking about me at all. If Adele was sleeping. If the rest of the world even noticed I was gone.
But mostly, I wondered what it would take to feel like myself again.
I drifted off just before dawn, dreaming of a house that didn’t exist anymore and a life that wasn’t mine.
When I woke, I poured myself coffee, opened the laptop, and waited for a sign that I’d made the right choice by not giving up.
It didn’t come, but I kept waiting anyway.