My daughter filled three shopping carts, and when the cashier announced the total was 980 dollars, she ordered me in front of everyone, “Pay. It’s the least you can do for living with us.” I closed my wallet, said “No,” and walked away without arguing. She still didn’t know that later that night, I would stop paying for something far more important than groceries.

“The neighbors say you can hear them arguing all the way down the street,” Brenda added.

Sitting there with my cup of tea, I felt no joy or petty satisfaction at their downfall, which surprised me.

During those first painful weeks, I had imagined that watching them suffer consequences would bring me a sense of justice, but now that it was actually happening, I realized I did not need their suffering to feel whole again.

A month later, I found a lovely, small studio apartment located in the cozy backyard of a gentle elderly widow named Mrs.

Higgins.

It was small and simple, featuring one bright bedroom, a small kitchenette with two stove burners, a clean bathroom, and a big window overlooking a garden full of potted flowers.