Family Landlords Raise the Rent to Force One Sister Out
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I closed the laptop screen, the blue light disappearing from the room and leaving only the warm yellow glow of the lamp.
For the first time in ten weeks, my shoulders did not feel tight, and the silver dial of my wristwatch remained still under my sleeve.
I did not need to check the time to see if Vanessa was about to walk through the door, and I did not need to prepare my arguments for the next phone call from Helen.
I stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the streetlights as they flickered on along Elm Street, their yellow bulbs reflecting in the wet pavement like small, fallen stars.
The studio was small, and the rent took more of my paycheck than I had planned when I first signed the lease on Tenth Avenue.
But as I stood in the quiet kitchen, watching the water slide down the glass, I knew that independence was not something that could be measured in square footage or the size of a kitchen counter.
It was measured in the silence of a Saturday afternoon, and the knowledge that no one else held the key to the door behind me.
I walked back to the sofa and sat down, my hand resting on the polished wood of my coffee table, warm and still.
