Chapter 5
### Part 5
New Year’s Eve morning was bright, bitter, and windblown.
The kind of Chicago cold that finds the seam between your gloves and sleeves and bites the skin there. I woke before sunrise in my new apartment to the smell of bread from the bakery downstairs and the unfamiliar clank of pipes in the wall. For one confused second, I reached for the view of the lake and found only the alley window.
A brick wall stared back at me.
I should have felt loss.
Instead, I felt space.
No one had a key. No one knew which buzzer was mine. No one could show up with a moving truck and call it love.
At 10:00 a.m., I met Mabel and Orson at the condo for the final handoff. The building lobby still had its Christmas garland around the mailboxes. Someone had dropped pine needles all over the tile. The doorman, Cedric, waved at me like usual, then looked at the boxes in Mabel’s hands and understood enough not to ask too many questions.
“Big day?” he said gently.
“Big day,” I answered.
Upstairs, the condo looked strange without me in it. Clean. Bright. Half-empty. My footsteps sounded different. Mabel walked directly to the balcony doors and touched the frame like she was greeting an old friend.
“I can’t wait to see the lake in summer,” she said.
“It’s best in October,” I told her. “When the sky gets that clear blue and the water turns dark.”
Orson smiled. “We’ll remember.”
I handed them the keys. All of them. The original set, the mailbox key, the storage room key, the fob. I also handed over a printed note with the building manager’s information, trash schedule, parking details, and the name of the handyman who knew how to fix the stubborn bathroom fan.
Mabel glanced over it and said, “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I know,” I said. “I wanted the right people to have a clean start.”
Her expression softened.
“Are you getting one too?”
The question landed in my chest with unexpected weight.
“I think so,” I said.
At 11:06 a.m., the locksmith arrived. Vivian had arranged it as part of the handoff, and the Pikes had agreed without hesitation when I explained the missing spare key. The locksmith was a broad man with a gray beard and a toolbox that clattered loudly every time he moved. He changed the front door lock while Orson watched with satisfied seriousness.
“Good habit,” Orson said. “New home, new keys.”
I nearly laughed.
New home, new keys.
My father had copies that now opened nothing.
Before leaving, I stood once more in the living room. Winter sunlight poured through the windows and spilled across the floorboards. For twelve years, that light had been mine. I thought saying goodbye would feel like failure.
It did not.
It felt like returning a chapter to the shelf.
I whispered, “Thank you.”
Then I walked out.
My phone buzzed before I reached the elevator.
Mom: “What time should we bring the kids’ things tomorrow?”
Dad: “Confirm loading dock reservation.”
Talia: “Brenner says the building needs our names for move-in. Can you handle that today?”
Brenner: “Send access code.”
I looked at the messages, one after another, and did something that felt almost luxurious.
Nothing.
I pressed the elevator button and put the phone in my pocket.
All afternoon, I unpacked in my new apartment. I lined up mugs in a cabinet that smelled faintly of old wood. I made the bed. I plugged in the brass lamp. I placed the lake print on the narrow mantel and stood back to see if it looked lonely.
It did not.
At 6:30 p.m., fireworks started popping somewhere far off, early and illegal. The alley glowed blue with evening. I ate scrambled eggs for dinner and fell asleep on the couch under a moving blanket while the city prepared to count down without me.
The next day, January 1st, I woke to twenty-three unread messages.
Not missed calls yet. Just messages.
Mom: “We’re leaving at noon.”
Dad: “Your mother says you aren’t answering. Don’t make this difficult.”
Talia: “Maris, please respond. Kids are excited.”
Brenner: “We have rented truck until 6. Need keys.”
Aunt Lorna: “Your mother is stressed. Call her.”
I brewed coffee.
Then I turned my phone face down.
At 12:47 p.m., the calls began.
Mom.
Decline.
Dad.
Decline.
Talia.
Decline.
Brenner.
Decline.
Mom again.
Dad again.
Unknown number.
Aunt Lorna.
Dad.
Talia.
My phone vibrated across the kitchen counter like an angry insect.
I pictured the scene without needing to see it. The rented moving truck double-parked by the building. My father in his wool coat, red-faced from cold and confusion. My mother holding a clipboard because she loved turning other people’s lives into projects. Talia with the children bundled in matching hats. Brenner carrying boxes labeled “lake house” in thick black marker.
Then the elevator opening.
Then Mabel and Orson standing in the doorway of their new home.
Maybe Orson would say, “Can I help you?”
Maybe Dad would laugh sharply and say, “There must be some mistake.”
Maybe Mom would try to step around him.
Maybe the new lock would stop them first.
By 2:00 p.m., my phone showed forty-one missed calls.
By 3:30, sixty-two.
At 4:17, Talia left a voicemail. Her voice was high and breathless.
“Maris, what did you do? There are people in the condo. They say they own it. Dad is furious. Mom is crying. The kids are scared. Call me right now.”
At 5:09, Dad left one.
“You have embarrassed this entire family. I don’t know what kind of stunt you’re pulling, but you will fix this tonight.”
At 6:44, Mom texted.
“How could you let us stand there like fools?”
I finally picked up the phone.
Seventy-nine missed calls.
Not one message said, “Are you safe?”
Not one said, “Where are you living?”
Not one said, “We should have asked.”
I stared at the number until the screen dimmed.
May you like
Then I turned the phone off.
The silence that followed felt like the first honest thing my family had given me in years.
