As the week progressed, the missed calls began. First from Tiffany, then from an unknown number I suspected was Harry. Twenty-two calls in total by the week’s end. I had not answered a single one.

There were moments where I doubted my decision. Living alone was a stark contrast to the bustling life I’d shared with my daughter. But each time I questioned myself, I recalled Harry’s smug face or Tiffany’s dismissive tone, and the resolve returned. I was not going to be a prisoner in my own home.

On the seventh day, just as I was settling down with a book, there was a knock on my door. Part of me hoped it was Tiffany, but when I opened it, I found my neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins. She was a sweet woman in her late sixties with a penchant for knitting and baking.