My mother threw my daughter’s soup onto the floor and pointed at the door. “Get out. When you can’t afford the rent, you’ll come crawling back.” My father said nothing, while my sister smiled, convinced I couldn’t survive without them.

By April, the air over the city had cleared, turning that bright, hard blue that comes only after three weeks of spring rain.

Apartment 404 Elm Street looked different now.

The yellowed wallpaper in the dining room had been stripped away, replaced by a smooth, clean coat of light grey paint. The dark oak floors had been sanded down to their natural pine color and sealed with satin varnish that smelled of beeswax.

In the corner where Arthur’s heavy armchair used to sit, there was now a small white table with two child-sized chairs and a red plastic bin full of wooden blocks.

Laura sat at her new desk by the window, her laptop open to an email from her publisher in New York.

Dear Laura, the email read. The revisions for the third volume are approved. We have credited your account with the final installment of four thousand two hundred dollars. We would also like to offer you the contract for the Midwestern Architectural Index for next fall.

She clicked Save, closed the laptop, and looked out at the street below.

Down on the sidewalk, the milk truck was making its morning delivery. Across the street, the young couple who had bought the bakery in March were setting out two blue iron tables and opening their striped awning.

A small knock came at the door—soft, two taps.

It was Mrs. Gable. She was carrying a white wicker basket filled with fresh yellow daffodils from her back garden.

"I brought these for the windowsill, dear," the old woman said, stepping into the bright hallway. "The room looks so large now that the heavy sideboard is gone."

"Thank you, Mrs. Gable," Laura said, taking the basket and setting it on the small table near the door. "How is the downstairs room?"

"Occupied," Mrs. Gable smiled, her eyes crinkling behind her glasses. "A lovely young schoolteacher from Iowa moved in on Monday. Very quiet. Doesn't use the kitchen after eight."

She walked over to the window, looking out at the tree branches that were just beginning to show tiny green buds.

"I saw your sister yesterday," Mrs. Gable said casually.

Laura paused, her hand resting on the back of a dining chair. "Where?"

"At the county clerk’s office on 8th," Mrs. Gable said. "She was with a legal aid attorney. They were filing the bankruptcy schedule for her condominium. She looked... simpler, Laura. No boots. She was wearing a coat from a thrift store and carrying a plastic folder."

"And my parents?" Laura asked.

"They're living in that small two-room rental near the railyard," Mrs. Gable said softly. "The one above the grease shop. Your father walks to the park every afternoon at two. He sits on the bench near the pond for an hour and then goes back inside. He doesn't read the paper anymore."

Laura stayed silent for a long moment. She looked at her daughter, who was sitting on the floor, carefully placing a blue wooden block on top of a yellow one.

"Do you ever feel bad about it, dear?" Mrs. Gable asked, her voice gentle, without any judgment or curiosity—just the question of an old woman who had seen sixty years of families build and break their houses.

Laura walked to the window, leaning her forehead against the cool glass.

"I felt bad for thirty-four years, Mrs. Gable," Laura said quietly. "I felt bad every time my mother looked at me like I was something she had bought on sale and regretted. I felt bad every time my father looked through me like I was glass. I felt bad every time I paid Karla’s bills while she told her friends I was a failure."