Grandpa came with me. He did not pay the deposit. I did not ask him to. He simply stood beside me while the leasing manager explained the paperwork, and when my hand hesitated before I signed, he said, “Read every line. Then decide.”
So I read every line.
Then I signed.
My apartment was on the third floor of a brick building with old stairs and a noisy radiator. It had one bedroom, one bathroom, a narrow kitchen, and a living room just big enough for a couch I bought from a guy named Marcus on Facebook Marketplace.
It was not impressive.
It was mine.
On moving day, Grandma brought cleaning supplies. Grandpa brought a toolbox. My friend Noah helped carry the mattress. By sunset, I had a bed, a folding table, two chairs, and a shower curtain with blue stripes because Grandma insisted “a man still needs a proper bathroom.”
At eight that night, I sat on the floor eating pizza from a paper plate.
Nobody asked where the leftovers were.
Nobody told me to turn the volume down.
Nobody knocked on the door and handed me a child.
I slept for nine hours.
The fallout arrived slowly.
At first, Mom texted every day.
We miss you.
The boys asked about you.
Your father is hurt.
Claire is under a lot of stress.
I answered politely, but briefly.
I miss the boys too.
I hope Dad feels better soon.
I’m not available to babysit this weekend.
That last sentence caused the first explosion.
Claire called me at work, something she never did unless she needed something. I stepped outside by the loading dock and answered.
“I need you Saturday,” she said.
“I’m busy.”
“With what?”
“My apartment.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is.”
She laughed bitterly. “You got one apartment and now you think you’re better than everyone.”
“No. I think I’m unavailable.”
“Must be nice to abandon your nephews.”
I looked across the parking lot at the gray winter sky. “I’m not their parent, Claire.”
She went quiet.
Then she said, “You really are selfish.”
