Johanna

My husband and I spent two years building a house for a family we never got to have. We argued over kitchen cabinets, measured bedrooms twice, and stood in the empty living room imagining Christmas mornings with children whose names we hadn't even chosen. He wanted a backyard big enough for a swing set. I wanted a dining table where everyone could fit, even when the kids brought friends home. We thought we had time to figure out the rest. Then he got cancer, and time became something measured in appointments, test results, and how many good days we could steal between treatments. Near the end, he apologized for not finishing the nursery. There wasn't a nursery, not really, just a spare room we'd painted a soft yellow. I told him we'd finish it together when he felt better. He looked at me for a long moment, and I knew he understood what I couldn't bear to say. He died eleven months ago. I kept the house for a while, paying bills and sleeping on my side of the bed because moving over felt like admitting there was nobody coming back. Eventually, I couldn't walk past those empty bedrooms without remembering what we'd planned for them. Selling the house was sensible. I hated myself for how often I had to repeat that. My new place is smaller, next door to you, with one bedroom and a kitchen where two people can barely pass each other. Yesterday, while carrying in a box of dishes, I noticed you watching from your driveway. You smiled and raised a hand. I tried to smile back. Honestly, I did. But my face wouldn't cooperate, and I looked down at the box until you went inside. This morning, I saw you again while collecting the mail. I made myself lift my hand before you could, determined not to become the miserable widow everyone felt obliged to tiptoe around. "Morning, Johanna. Settling in okay?" "Getting there," I said, surprised my voice sounded normal. "Just takes some getting used to."