“I found this apartment on my own, and I have no intention of sharing it with anyone,” I shot back, not giving them a single chance to interrupt.
Olivia and Andrew had been living together for a little over a year. The apartment—two rooms, bright and airy—sat on the seventh floor of a well-kept building in a decent neighborhood. Olivia hadn’t inherited it, nor had anyone handed it to her as a gift. She had bought it herself, after years of relentless work, saving every spare dollar and giving up vacations and days off.
Ten years earlier, she had started out as an accountant at a construction firm, earning $45,000. Later she moved to a larger company for $60,000, and within two years her salary had climbed to $80,000. She didn’t waste money on entertainment, skipped holidays abroad, and avoided expensive clothes. She saved. Methodically. Patiently.
It took her three years to gather the down payment for the mortgage. She paid off the loan by taking on freelance work during weekends. The day the apartment officially became hers, Olivia felt a surge of pride unlike anything she had experienced before.
From the very beginning, Andrew admired her independence. He himself had been living with his mother, Linda, in an old one-bedroom place on the outskirts of town. Once their relationship became serious, it was obvious that his cramped apartment wasn’t suitable for the two of them.
So he gradually moved into Olivia’s home—almost naturally, without any formal discussion. Their life together unfolded quietly, without dramatic arguments. Andrew worked as a manager at a distribution company, earning around $50,000. He contributed to groceries and utilities. Now and then he bought something for the apartment—a new frying pan, a set of bed linens, a lightbulb. He made an effort to be useful.
The place was warm and welcoming, and Olivia took pride in every corner. She had chosen the living room wallpaper herself. The furniture had been purchased during sales, but she had insisted on quality. Light curtains hung in the kitchen—she had sewn them with her own hands.
In the bedroom stood a large sliding-door wardrobe. Half the shelves remained empty because Olivia disliked clutter. Andrew sometimes joked that he still felt like a guest there. Each time, Olivia would respond the same way.
“Oh, Andrew. This is your home too.”
He would smile and nod, yet for some reason the words never sounded entirely convincing. They grew used to peaceful evenings, shared breakfasts, and comfortable silence. Everything moved along steadily and predictably. On weekends they went to the movies, occasionally ordered pizza, and spent their nights watching TV series.
Olivia worked from nine to six. Andrew often stayed at the office until eight, returning home tired, eating dinner, and going straight to bed. Nothing extraordinary—but for Olivia, that was perfectly fine.
Their relationship seemed solid, even if it lacked fiery passion. Andrew wasn’t the type to surprise her with flowers or plan romantic evenings, but she didn’t expect that. What mattered most was that she had a dependable man beside her—someone who didn’t drink excessively, didn’t wander, and didn’t create scenes.
They talked about the future—vacations in Florida, buying a used car—but neither of them imagined how quickly everything could change. Or perhaps, deep down, Olivia sensed that their quiet happiness was fragile; she simply brushed aside the uneasy thought.
Linda began telling her son how difficult it was to live alone. At first, it was only the occasional evening phone call. Andrew would step out onto the balcony, speaking softly yet with concern in his voice.
Soon the calls became more frequent. One day she misplaced her keys and stood in the hallway for an hour, unable to get inside, crying in front of the neighbors. Another time a lightbulb burned out, and there was no one to replace it—climbing onto a chair felt too risky. On other days she complained there was no one to carry groceries; the bags were heavy, and the supermarket was three bus stops away.
Andrew listened, sympathized, and began stopping by his mother’s place more and more often after work. Olivia noticed everything but chose not to interfere. She understood that Linda was alone, that she truly had no one else to rely on, and that her son felt responsible for her, even if none of them yet realized how far that responsibility would soon reach.