Once the movers finished unloading my things at the new place, I closed the door on my past life and began assembling my new one. The apartment was modest, with walls that echoed every sound and windows that opened to a view of the street below. But it was mine, wholly and entirely. I spent the next few weeks settling in, decorating with second-hand finds and pieces of art I’d collected from my travels.

As months passed, I flourished in my new environment. My work thrived with the absence of familial drama, and I finally had time to indulge in painting, writing, and long walks through the city. I built friendships with neighbors and frequented a cozy café where the barista knew my order by heart.