When I first joined the Small World site—the Small World “community”—I needed advice on recycling and parking permits and handymen and car mechanics. That was a year after Tom left and a year before Lydia moved in. He had taken care of those kinds of things, as well as almost all the cooking, when he was still around, but once he was gone, I had to figure all that out for myself. Which was fine. I was single again now, and while a part of me was deeply ashamed and devastated—it was Tom who left me, not the other way around—I was game to start over. Because when you start over you get another chance to make things right. Because what feels like the end is often the beginning. Isn’t that what all the stupid divorce books and social media affirmation posts promised? With Lydia here, I have different needs: her needs. Museums, art supply stores, barre and yoga classes, and lots of takeout choices, since she is as uncomfortable and uninterested in the kitchen as I am. Small World is another world, an endless rabbit hole to disappear into and get lost in where no one can find me. It’s the perfect hiding place, even from myself. Especially from myself.

But I never post questions of my own on Small World. Letting my neighbors know my business—my odd jobs in need of doing, my dietary cravings, my sister issues—would be too revealing. Instead, I lurk, stealing answers from other, similar posts. It feels like cheating, because it is, but eavesdropping on the site is better than getting involved online or in person. I grew up with people constantly in our house, in our living room—crying and sad and desperate for comfort. Now that I’m in charge of my life, I prefer to keep to myself.

Sometimes I look for apartments on Small World for Lydia. Not for now, since we’re having such a great time together getting to know each other as adults, but for later, down the road. Just in case. There aren’t many rental leads on the site, which is surprising, and dumb: finding apartments seems like a big problem that it should prioritize solving. But, like so many things in life, that’s the way it is. I’m not desperate for her to go. In fact, the constant challenge of trying to get my sister to pay attention to me so that we can finally be close gives my life purpose and focus in this strange postdivorce phase, and I’d be lying if I said having someone to share expenses with again hasn’t been a relief. So it’s nothing like that. I’m thinking ahead, planning for our futures, which are now, finally, connected.

Maybe someday I’ll write to the developers of Small World, suggest they ramp up their local real estate listings—neighbors seem more reliable than those online rental sites when it comes to hearing about available apartments and places for sale. They could provide a valuable service to people like me trying to help friends and relatives move out and transition from dependent houseguest or codependent roommate to independent renter or homeowner. Until then, I’ll keep looking. There are a few listings here and there—mostly short-term sublets, in-law suites, rooms in basements or third-floor attics, the occasional decent studio or one- or two-bedroom—nothing great, nothing that would appeal to Lydia and rise to her high design expectations, even temporarily, I’m certain of that. But you never know. It doesn’t hurt to check.