That was almost as good as an apology.
Maybe better in some ways.
Because apologies looked backward.
Understanding could change the next request.
In December, Elowen got the apartment without me as guarantor.
It was small.
Two bedrooms.
Second floor.
No dishwasher.
The carpet in the hallway smelled faintly like boiled cabbage.
But the windows opened.
The locks worked.
The kids had beds.
The first night, we carried boxes up the stairs until my arms shook.
Mr. Gideon supervised from a folding chair on the sidewalk, claiming his back was “too dignified for manual labor.”
He labeled boxes with a marker.
Kitchen.
Kids.
Bathroom.
Probably nonsense.
Maura came too.
She brought cleaning supplies and did not criticize the apartment once.
Not the peeling paint.
Not the old stove.
Not even the cabbage smell.
At one point, I found her in Wren’s room, carefully putting sheets on a twin bed.
