The agency I contracted through had a client with a growing need — a regional nonprofit that needed someone for thirty hours a week, reliably, for at least a year. The hours were structured enough that I could plan around them. I took it.
The apartment I found was the upper floor of a duplex two miles from the house, owned by a retired woman who wanted reliable tenants and didn’t mind cats. I don’t have a cat. But it was good to know about the cat policy.
Two bedrooms, which I thought was too big until I understood that one would be the room where I worked and the other would be the room where I slept, and having those be separate rooms was something I had not had for twelve years. The second bedroom would have a desk. And a door I could close.
I signed a lease in March.
Moving out of my mother’s house happened over a weekend, with help from Maya and a friend of hers with a truck. The house had been staged by the real estate agent, who had a specific and confident opinion about what needed to be cleaned and what needed to be decluttered and what the entry hallway needed, which was a different rug. I bought the rug. I had opinions about it that I kept to myself.
The sale closed in May. The net proceeds, after agent fees and closing costs and the remaining estate expenses, came to a number I won’t put here because it wouldn’t mean anything without knowing the specifics of the property values in our area, but it was enough for the agreement to work: the $22,000 was repaid to me as agreed, and the remainder was divided, and the whole thing was done.