Chapter 17 - The Apartment With Yellow CurtainsThe apartment was small.

Two bedrooms, one bathroom, second floor, above a quiet dentist’s office and across from a park with old oak trees. The kitchen had chipped white cabinets, the living room window stuck if you opened it too far, and the hallway closet smelled faintly like dust no matter how much the landlord cleaned.

But it had yellow curtains.

No angry room.

No guest room.

No table large enough for a child to disappear beneath.

When I signed the lease, my hands did not shake.

Elena cried.

I pretended not to notice.

Noah ran from room to room shouting assignments.

“This is Mommy’s room!”

“This is my room!”

“This is Captain’s corner!”

He stood in the living room and looked at the ceiling.

“Where does Daddy sleep?”

“He doesn’t sleep here.”

Noah nodded.

Not sad exactly.

Relieved.

We moved in with donated furniture, thrift store dishes, and three boxes of books from Elena. Mrs. Whitcomb gave us a lamp shaped like a lighthouse, which made me cry in the bathroom for reasons I could not explain to Noah.

Actually, I could explain.

The porch light had failed.

So someone gave us a lighthouse we could turn on ourselves.

My first night in the apartment, I stood in the doorway of Noah’s room for almost an hour.

He slept under a new blue comforter, Captain tucked beneath his chin, dinosaur night-light glowing beside the bed. The window was closed. The heat worked. His cheeks were warm.

I checked the thermostat six times.

Then I made tea and sat on the living room floor because our couch had not arrived.

For the first time in weeks, silence did not feel dangerous.

It felt earned.

The divorce moved forward.

The house was listed.

Marcus objected, then relented when financial discovery revealed enough questionable activity that his attorney likely advised him to stop looking righteous in writing.

Diane’s boutique began to fail.

I learned this not because I asked, but because my mother left a voicemail saying, “Your sister may lose everything because of this vendetta.”

This vendetta.

I saved the voicemail.

Then I deleted it from my mind.

Marcus began therapy.

Court-ordered.

At first, his reports were terrible. Defensive. Blaming. Focused on marital pain rather than parenting harm.

Then something shifted.

Or seemed to.

His messages through the parenting app became shorter.

Less dramatic.

I am attending therapy.

I understand Noah needs space.

I will follow Dr. Brooks’s recommendations.

Maya warned me not to confuse compliance with transformation.

“Time tells the difference,” she said.

So I waited.

Noah improved.

Slowly.

Healing is not a montage. It is not one brave speech and then sunlight. It is a child asking the same question twenty different ways until the answer finally grows roots.

“Will you come home after work?”

“Yes.”

“What if the light breaks?”

“I’ll fix it.”

“What if I knock?”

“I’ll answer.”

“What if you’re sleeping?”

“You can wake me.”

“What if I’m bad?”

“You still get warmth.”

That one took the longest.

You still get warmth.

We said it every night.

One month after moving in, I worked my first overnight shift without panic.

Elena stayed with Noah. When I returned at 6:22 a.m., the apartment porch light glowed outside our door.

Not because Marcus turned it on.

Because Elena did.

Inside, Noah was asleep in his bed.

Not the kitchen.

Not the floor.

His bed.

I stood there in the doorway and let the truth enter me fully.

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We had survived the leaving.

Now we had to survive the rebuilding.