I’ve only recently switched to Leslie as a real estate agent, since my old agency could not deliver, and it isn’t fair to put so much pressure on her, but I’m desperate.

“As it happens”—Leslie shifts the black leather folder to a one-arm hold, and uses her free hand to fish a fresh set of keys out of her bag—“the office next door is still available. But you should know all the lots in this building are going fast.”

She unlocks the middle door. “Not a corner office like you wanted, but it’s spacious and bright.”

I follow her inside and assess the space. Not bad. The back wall is made of windows, in the same distressed metal and glass theme I’ve seen around the entire building, and light pours in, leaving no dark corners. Still, compared to the office next door, this is a poor facsimile.

I close my eyes to remove from my mind any memory of the adjoining space. Instead, I concentrate on all the sad hovels I’ve visited in these past few months. When put into perspective, it’s a no brainer.

“I’ll take it,” I say to Leslie.

“Really? Wonderful! Sign the papers, and the lease is yours. You can move in right away. And, good news—the rent is lower for this office.”

I would’ve gladly forked over the extra bucks for the corner office, but let’s concentrate on the positives. Except for the questionable neighbor, this place is perfect.

Two

Vivian

Freight elevator. I’m not a fan of this feature of my new office building. Slow, lumbering… But at least they’re spacious enough that Tegan and I can move all my stuff upstairs in one journey. Hiring a moving company would’ve been easier, but those are expensive, and I have a specific storing system. I couldn’t risk them messing up my files. So, elbow grease it is.

“Mom,” Tegan whines as she hauls one of the last boxes into the elevator. “You promised today would be fun.”

“We’re almost done, honey,” I say. “And then we can go get ice cream like we do every Saturday.”

She drops the box to the elevator floor, still with the long face. “I’m not five anymore, you know?”

Don’t I? At fifteen, my daughter is in that weird phase of life where she’s not yet a woman but is no longer a kid. But to me, she’ll always be my baby. And we’re going to keep the tradition of Saturday morning ice creams alive for as long as she’ll allow it—even under protest.

“Wait here,” I say, heading for the front doors that lead out to the street. “And make sure the elevator stays put.”