Then said, “Oh, wait. Not anymore. You’re out of my apartment by tomorrow.”
Her smile disappeared.
Karen stopped laughing.
For the first time all evening, the room went completely silent.
My name is Thomas. I was twenty-nine then, working in IT for a financial-services company.
I wasn’t rich.
But I had spent years saving.
While friends traveled, upgraded cars, and ordered takeout constantly, I put money aside.
Eventually, I managed to buy a modest two-bedroom apartment.
It wasn’t huge.
It wasn’t glamorous.
But when I held those keys for the first time, I remember standing alone in the empty living room thinking:
I built this.
Every chair.
Every lamp.
Every plate in the kitchen.
Every dollar of the mortgage.
Mine.
Then Mia’s relationship fell apart.
My twenty-six-year-old sister called me crying after breaking up with her boyfriend.
“I just need somewhere for a couple months,” she told me.
