Chapter 8 - The KeyFor the following months, we saw each other only when she brought Desmond to visit on weekends. I never entered her house again. I never cooked another meal for Roland. I never paid another household bill. I never ironed a dress shirt that didn't belong to me.
Then something happened that I hadn't expected. My health improved. I started sleeping peacefully through the night. My arthritis remained, but the constant aching seemed lighter. My blood pressure stabilized. I gained healthy weight. I began taking morning walks through the park. Delia took me to a nearby craft shop, where I bought inexpensive colorful yarn and started knitting again — a hobby I'd abandoned after Walter died.
One afternoon, Marisol came to Delia's house for tea. "I have some big news for you, Eleanor," she said with a smile.
"What happened?"
"Priscilla and Roland just put their big house up for sale."
Their debts were drowning them, and Roland had accumulated even more liabilities trying to maintain the appearance of wealth. After weeks of arguments over money, Priscilla finally demanded separate bank accounts.
"The neighbors say you can hear them arguing all the way down the street," Marisol added.
Sitting there with my tea, I felt no joy at their downfall. That surprised me. During the first painful weeks, I'd imagined their consequences might feel like justice. But now that they were happening, I realized I didn't need their suffering to feel whole.
A month later, I found a lovely little studio apartment in the backyard of a kind elderly widow named Mrs. Calloway. It was small and simple — one bright bedroom, a kitchenette with two burners, a clean bathroom, a large window overlooking a garden of potted flowers. When Mrs. Calloway told me the rent, I nearly laughed with relief. My pension could easily cover it, leaving enough for healthy groceries, prescriptions, bus tickets, and the occasional ball of yarn.
I signed the lease immediately. She handed me one shiny brass key. I stood on the porch with it resting in my palm, feeling its weight.
Four years earlier, I had given away nearly my entire life savings because I was terrified of being lonely in old age. Now I owned little more than what fit inside a tiny studio.
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Yet for the first time in years, I did not feel lonely.
I felt free.
