The next morning, I finally listened to Tiffany’s voicemails. Her voice was a mixture of anger, frustration, and, surprisingly, a hint of regret. She wanted to talk, to explain, to convince me to return. But her words didn’t hold the power they once did.

I knew I needed to have a conversation with her. But first, I needed to solidify my own boundaries, to ensure I wouldn’t be swayed by guilt or manipulation. The apartment might be modest, but it represented a fresh start—a chance to redefine my role in life.

As I brewed a cup of coffee, I felt a sense of calm wash over me. No matter what happened next, I was ready to face it on my own terms. This was my life, and I was finally living it for myself.