October 12th I finally got the keys to the flat opposite mine on a damp Friday evening. The advertisement had read: Council block, city centre, cheap, urgent. The place looked halfgone: scuffed floorboards, peeling windowsills, high ceilings and massive windows that let the grey light in. After my divorce I wasnt looking for a house so much as a refuge a spot where no one could ask, Are you sure you wont regret this?
When I slipped the keys into my pocket, the streets already smelled of wet leaves. October feels like the month when everything crumbles and then has to be rebuilt. My first night was restless. I wrapped a blanket around me, perched on the sill and stared at the flat opposite.
The opposite building sits just across the courtyard. Fifth floor, a balcony with a clump of pink petunias, a soft warm glow in the living room. A family lives there. I watched a tall man in a grey sweater, a slender woman with a neat braidshe could have been on an old yoghurt adverttwo children, a girl and a boy, setting the table together. The girl leapt, the boy held her hand, their mother smiled, the father uncorked a bottle of red wine. Their laughter rang through the glass.
I sank back onto my pillow. How long had it been since I heard childrens laughter in a house?
The next morning I sipped coffee on the same sill and watched them eat breakfast. The man read the newspaper, the woman brushed the girls hair, the boy raced a toy car across the kitchen floor.
During the day I unpacked boxes. In the evening I walked to the corner shop, which sits just beyond the courtyard. At the entrance I bumped into the woman from across the street. She was juggling two bagsone full of apples, the other of cherry cola. An apple rolled under my foot.
Oh! Sorry! she laughed, Everything keeps slipping from my hands today, as usual!
I caught the apple and smiled.
No harm done. Need a hand? she asked.
Would be lovely! Im Olivia. You just moved in, right?
Yes, a few days ago. James. I replied.
Then you must try my familys strudel! Its tradition to treat new neighbours. May I bring it over?
An hour later Olivia appeared with a steaming tin, the scent of cinnamon drifting out, and a small bowl of vanilla icecream for dessert balance. She was as lightfooted as a cat, dressed in jeans, a highwaisted skirt, and a grin that stretched a little too wide.
We sat with tea and chatted. Olivia told me:
We moved here five years ago. Luck was on our sidea developer funded a full renovation. My husband works in IT, the kids go to a local academy. Im home now but thinking of opening a motherandbaby café.
A motherandbaby café? I asked.
A cosy spot where mums can bring their prams, have a cuppa, chat without hurrying.
I listened, smiled, and felt a quiet, sharp sting insidesomething that felt like envy.
You all seem genuinely happy, I said.
We try, Olivia nodded.
After Olivia left, I turned back to the opposite flat. Olivia stood at the stove; her husband slipped his arm around her from behind, and she laughed. The children tumbled, squealed, and fell in a happy mess.
I exhaled. This is how it should bewarm, safe, loving. I switched off the light, yet the windows opposite glowed like a cinema screen, showing a film I had arrived late to.
***
James, are you home? Ive got a honey cake! Olivia knocked later, holding a cake in one hand and a knitted tote in the other. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes sparkling, but there was a fresh bruise on the left side of her neck, just under the collarbone.
You a bruise? Everything alright? I asked.
She tugged at her sweater collar and brushed it off.
Its nothing. I just didnt close the cupboard door properly and I bent over, clumsy me. She smiled, though I could tell she was lying.
Olivia started visiting weekly, then almost daily, bringing pastries, salads, stories.
We run a honesty night every Saturday, she told me once. We each say what irritates us about the other, argue for half an hour, then laugh it off. Works like a charm.
And the kids?
We never argue in front of them. They need to see us as a team.
I listened, but a feeling settled deepereverything was too perfect, too textbook.
One evening, walking home from the shop together, Olivia confessed, I used to be a different person. I worked in advertising, lived on coffee and taxis. Then I met him. He turned my world upside down.
In a good way? I asked.
Yes. He taught me to be myself, not to play roles, not to lie.
Her words sounded rehearsed, as if lifted straight from a selfhelp booklet.
A few days later, standing at my window, the opposite flat dimmed, then a flash of light, a shout, a male voice, then a female cry, a childs wail. The door slammed shut. The lights went out.
The next morning I met Olivia in the lift, sunglasses perched on her nose despite the overcast sky.
Everything okay? I asked.
Its fine. We just burned out. Happens. Dont worry about it. She brushed it off, but I could see the tension in her eyes.
When I visited her later, the children sat silent on the carpet, clutching toys as if hiding behind them. Olivia set tea down and I asked gently, Are you sure everythings alright?
She froze, then whispered, Sometimes I feel like Im living in a shop windoweveryone sees a happy family, a tidy wife, obedient children. At night I wake up feeling Im screaming, but no one hears.
I tried to comfort her, but her smile was plastered, her words rehearsed.
Weeks passed and her bruises didnt fade. One afternoon she arrived with a stack of pancakes, her hand trembling.
Everything okay? I asked again.
She laughed weakly, Just a pulled muscle. Yoga isnt for the fainthearted.
She kept saying, You can trust me if you want. Her tone shifted, as if the mask slipped.
She eventually broke down, admitting the bruises were from her husband. He claimed she was ruining his life if she didnt stay quiet. He never hit hard, she said, but it was a pattern, growing each week.
I called 999, the operators voice calm, asking, Is this domestic violence? She couldnt confirm; there were no witnesses, only my own ears and the nights shadows.
Police arrived after a while, spoke politely with the husband, who handed over his ID and paperwork. Olivia was nowhere to be seen.
Later that night, a soft knock on my door. Olivia stood there, eyes swollen, hair hastily tied, fingers trembling.
May I come in? she asked.
I let her in, set a kettle on. She sank onto the sofa, clutching a plush rabbit.
I thought if I were a good wifealways smiling, cooking, listeninghed love me. Hed soften. But he just squeezes tighter, a little more each week. She sobbed, I have nowhere. No job, no relatives.
You have me, I said. Youre not alone.
She cried, Everyone sees the perfect family, but behind the scenes he snaps, the kids flinch, his voice turns hard. I held her, feeling the weight of her secret.
In the weeks that followed, I helped Olivia find a refuge flat, contacted charities, and arranged legal advice. She moved into a modest onebedroom flat with cracked tiles and an old fridge, but it was quiet and free of shouting.
One cold night, after the children fell asleep on inflatable mattresses, Olivia turned to me, James, youre the first line of my new story. Thank you.
She left a fortnight later, bags packed, a backpack with a few baby items and a tidy folder of documents. I watched her disappear down the stairwell, the kids holding each others hands, the rabbit peeking from the bag.
Spring melted the lingering frost in my heart. I stood at my kitchen window, coffee in hand, watching the nowempty flat opposite. The woman who once lived there had moved onnot just out of a flat, but out of a life she had curated for the outside world.
I felt a calm I hadnt known since the divorce. My own home was right here, in this kitchen, in this ordinary life. When the doorbell rang, I opened it to find Olivia in a coat, cheeks pink, the children behind her the girl with the rabbit, the boy with a jam jar.
Did you bake anything today? she asked.
I laughed, Come in, I just took it out of the oven.
The door swung wide, ushering in not just an apartment but a new morning, a life where perfection isnt requiredjust honesty, compassion, and the willingness to be truly present.
Lesson learned: safety and belonging are built not by flawless façades, but by the small, steady acts of looking beyond the window and reaching out when someone is quietly knocking.
