I moved into a small apartment in a different neighborhood in March.
It was a one-bedroom on the fourth floor of a building with a view of the park. It was not as nice as the apartment I had shared with Daniel. The kitchen was small. The closet was cramped. But it was mine. Every corner of it was mine.
I hung my paintings on the walls. I had stopped painting after the miscarriage, but I had started again in January, and I found that my hands remembered what to do. I bought a small easel and set it up by the window. I painted the park, the trees, the light that came through the leaves. I painted without worrying whether anyone would see it.
I bought a new keyring and put a single key on it, the key to my apartment. I did not need another key. I did not need another person's key. I was th
