A flat across the street
Marion got the flat after spotting a halfhearted ad: Terraced house, centre, cheap, urgent. It looked suspiciously cheap, with scuffed parquet, peeling windowsills, but lofty ceilings and gigantic windows.
Fresh from a divorce, Marion wasnt hunting for a home so much as a hideaway a place where no one asked, Are you sure you wont regret this?
She collected the keys on a Friday evening. The town already smelled of damp leaves. October that glorious month when everything crumbles and then has to be glued back together again.
The first night was a sleepless one. She wrapped herself in a blanket, perched on the sill, and stared at the windows opposite. The flat across the courtyard was practically a dolls house: fifth floor, a balcony festooned with crimson petunias, a warm, muted glow in the lounge. A family lived there.
She saw a tall man in a grey jumper, a slender woman with a braid who looked like shed stepped out of a vintage yoghurt advert, and two children a little girl and a boy. They were setting the table together. The girl bounced, the boy held her hand, the mother smiled, the father uncorked a bottle of wine. Their laughter cracked even through the glass.
Marion flopped onto her pillow. How long had she gone without hearing laughter in a house?
The next morning she sipped coffee on the same sill and watched again. Across the way, breakfast was underway. The man read the newspaper, the woman brushed the girls hair, the boy zoomed around with a toy car.
During the day Marion unpacked boxes. In the evening she went shopping just across the courtyard. At the lift landing she bumped into the woman from the opposite flat, lugging bags of apples and cherry cola. An apple rolled under Marions foot.
Oh dear! the woman laughed. Everythings slipping through my fingers, as usual!
Marion caught the fruit and smiled.
No worries. Need a hand?
Would be lovely! Im Olivia. You just moved in, right?
Just a few days ago. Marion.
Then you simply must try my strudel! Its a family tradition to treat new neighbours. Shall I bring it over?
Olivia appeared an hour later, brandishing a steaming tin, the scent of cinnamon hanging in the air, and a tiny glass of icecream for dessert balance. She was light on her feet, like a cat in jeans, a high ponytail, and an overly bright grin.
They sat down with tea and chatted. Olivia said:
We moved here five years ago. Lucky break an investor came along and we refurbished the place. My husband works in IT, the kids go to a local academy. Im home for now, but Im thinking of opening a mumsandbabies café.
A mumsandbabies café? Marion echoed.
Sort of a place you can bring a pram, have a cuppa, gossip without hurrying.
Marion listened, smiled, and felt a quiet, sharp sting rise inside something like envy.
Youve got it all, dont you? Everything feels genuine.
We try, Olivia nodded.
When Olivia left, Marion returned to the window. Across the street, Olivia stood by the stove, the husband slipped his arm around her from behind and they both laughed as the children tumbled and squealed.
Marion sighed. This was how it should be warm, safe, born of love. She switched off the lights, but even as she drifted to sleep she could see those inviting windows opposite, like a cinema screen showing a film shed missed.
—
Marion, are you home? Ive got a honey cake!
Marion opened the door. Olivia was there, cake in one hand, a knitted bag in the other, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. A fresh bruise traced a line near her collarbone.
Youve got a bruise. Everything okay?
Olivia tugged at her sweater collar.
Oh, this? Im a klutz. I didnt close the cupboard door properly and then I bent over clumsy me.
Marion didnt believe it but stayed silent.
Olivia started dropping by more often first once a week, then almost daily, with pies, salads, stories.
We have a honesty night every Saturday, she told Marion one evening. We air out what irks us, argue for half an hour, then laugh. Works like a charm!
And the kids? Marion asked.
We never argue in front of them. They need to see us as a team.
Marion listened, but the feeling that something was off grew stronger. Too perfect, textbooknice.
One night, walking home from the shop together, Olivia confessed:
I used to be a different person advertising, coffeefueled nights, cabs. Then I met him. He turned my world upside down.
In what way? Marion prompted.
In a good way, of course! He taught me to be myself, not to act.
Marion nodded, yet the words felt rehearsed, as if lifted from a selfhelp manual.
A few days later, Marion stood at her window out of habit. The flat opposite was dim, then a flash of light, a shout, a male voice, then a female one, a childs wail. The door slammed. The lights sputtered out.
The next morning Olivia appeared in the hallway wearing sunglasses despite the overcast sky.
Everything alright? Marion asked.
Fine, just burnt out. Happens. Dont worry.
Marion didnt know what to say, but she nodded.
When Marion visited later, the children sat silently on the carpet, toys clutched like shields.
Olivia set out tea. Marion asked gently,
Are you sure everythings okay?
Olivia froze, kettle in hand, then sank onto the sofa.
Sometimes I feel Im living in a shop window perfect family, tidy wife, obedient kids. At night I wake up screaming, but no one hears.
Maybe you should
No, its not what you think. He doesnt hit. Hes just tired. Im not sugar either. Whos perfect, anyway?
That evening Marion watched them again through the glass. They smiled, drank tea, but the little girl flinched when her father raised his voice, Olivia averted her eyes, the husband spoke through clenched teeth. A beautiful story, but with sharp teeth hidden inside.
—
Marion kept wondering: What if she was wrong? What if this was all her projection? After the divorce shed stopped trusting men, relationships, even herself. Perhaps envy had simply sharpened her vigilance. Yet each new encounter with Olivia only added to her anxiety.
One afternoon Olivia arrived with pancakes, hand trembling, arm barely bending.
Everything alright? Marion asked.
Just a pulled muscle. Yoga isnt a joke.
Olivias smile was plastic, storefrontbright.
You can trust me if you want.
Olivias voice softened, then snapped back.
Marion, dont start, please. Hes not a monster, just exhausted. He works so we can live, and I can be unbearable sometimes. I know that.
Youre bruised, Olivia. You wear glasses when its cloudy. You whisper to the kids.
Exactly.
What does exactly mean?
If you dont get it, youve never really been married.
Marion had no reply. Olivia left.
That night Marion watched a drama on TV, but the only sound in her head was a steady thump, a light panic like the calm before a storm, then a sudden bang. A muffled scream, a male shout:
Silence! I said silence!
A crash, a scrape, like something had been knocked over.
Marion froze, rose, and approached the window. The opposite flat glowed, shadows darted like a rehearsal, a scream, then a childs sob, then silence.
She dialed 999, her hands trembling.
Are you sure this is domestic violence? the operator asked calmly.
Yes, I heard blows, screaming. Its not the first time.
Did the neighbours call?
I
She stopped. No confirmation, just her, the night, the gut feeling that if she didnt act now, it would get worse.
The operator said a patrol would be on the way but advised her not to get involved.
Forty minutes later, footsteps and muffled voices echoed as the patrol entered. The door slammed shut, and silence returned. From the window, Marion saw the husband standing in the doorway, talking politely with officers, documents in hand. Olivia was nowhere to be seen.
That morning the door to Marions flat was knocked gently.
Olivia, eyes swollen, hair hastily pulled back, fingers trembling.
May I come in?
Marion let her in, set a kettle on.
Did you call them?
Yes. Im sorry, I had no choice.
Olivia sank into a chair, staring at a point on the wall.
I thought if I were a good wife smile, cook, listen hed love me, soften. But he just squeezes tighter, a little more each week.
You can leave.
Where? With two kids? I have no job, no family, nothing.
You have me.
Olivias eyes welled, she pressed her palm to her lips and burst into tears.
Youre the only one who doesnt look away. Everyone else pretends not to see. Even at the academy, everyone knows but says nothing. Its a dark secret.
It isnt a secret to me.
Youre not a rescuer. Just a neighbour.
And youre not a thing.
Olivia sat in silence for a long while, then rose.
Ill go. Not today, but Ill go.
Marion nodded, feeling strangely like a dim, warm light in someone elses window.
—
Night fell thick as boiled jam. Darkness blanketed the streets, rain whispered against the sill.
When Marion heard a knock, she first thought she imagined it, then heard it again, twice, cautiously. She opened the door, breath caught.
Olivia, in a halfopen bathrobe, slippers, no umbrella, hair damp, cheeks wet, a fresh scratch on her cheek, clutching a plush rabbit.
Can I just sit? she whispered.
Marion let her in.
Olivia curled up in the corner of the sofa, hugging the rabbit, shoulders trembling.
He says I ruin his life. If I dont learn to be silent hell teach me. He hit me. Not hard, but its not the first time.
Are the kids?
Theyre asleep. I didnt wake them. I left when he was in bed.
Stay. Stay forever.
I cant. Ive nowhere to go. He has money, connections. Im nobody. I wont find work. With the kids, nobody will take me.
Marion sat beside her, looking not at the wound but at the core of her.
Youre human. You can leave. There are shelters, temporary flats. Ill find something. Youre not alone.
But Im scared, Marion. Im tired of fearing and even more tired of hoping.
Im here. Im not a hero, but I wont walk away.
Olivia rested her head on Marions shoulder, hugging the rabbit tightly, whispering, Thank you. Youre the only one who doesnt turn away, who doesnt say Its your fault. Who just is.
And Ill stay until youre strong enough to say Enough.
They sat in silence, listening to rain erase old pain.
Olivia left two weeks later, no suitcase, just a backpack, a bag of childrens clothes, and a neat folder of papers.
Marion held the folder as they stepped out into the night, the building still asleep. The children walked quietly, the girl clutching her brothers hand, the rabbit poking out of the backpack like a distress signal.
The flat Marion found for Olivia was modest: a singleroom dwelling with a cracked bathroom and an ancient fridge. Quiet, and most importantly, no one shouting or throwing things.
Here we start afresh, Olivia said once the kids were asleep on inflatable mattresses. You, Marion youre the first line of this new page. Thank you.
Marion merely nodded.
Soon Marion was bustling between shelters, lawyers, paperwork. Olivia relearned how to live: remote gigs, grocery lists, sleeping with the lights off without fear. The children adjusted slowly. One day the boy handed Marion a drawing: two women, two children, the words For Marion above.
Spring arrived. One night the snow melted, and something thawed in Marions heart. She rose early, made coffee, and, as before, walked to the window.
The opposite windows were empty. The woman who once lived there had moved on not just from a flat but from the life shed trapped herself in, the showcase of the perfect wife.
Marion watched, feeling no longer jealous, no longer pained, just calm. Her home was right here, in this kitchen, in this life.
A knock sounded at the door. She opened it to find Olivia in a coat, cheeks pink, the children trailing behind. The girl cradled the plush rabbit, the boy carried a jar of jam.
Did you bake anything today? Olivia asked.
Marion laughed.
Come in. Its fresh out of the oven.
The door swung wide, not just into a flat but into a morning, into a life where perfection wasnt required, only authenticity.
