He looked at me then. Really looked. Not over his phone. Not around his mother’s opinion. At me.
“We are saving for a house,” he said weakly.
“No, Ronin. We are not. We are paying for groceries, bills, repairs, your mother’s comfort, and my silence. There is no down payment worth two more years of that kitchen.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“If we leave, we start from zero.”
“If I go back there, I become zero.”
That finally reached him. I saw it land. His mouth opened, then closed.
“I do not want a divorce,” he said.
“Then choose a home with your wife in it.”
He nodded slowly, like the movement cost him. “Okay. I will look.”
I did not go back with him that night. That mattered. Old Leora would have softened the moment he agreed. Old Leora would have packed up her pride and returned to the same room, hoping a promise could protect her.
I stayed at Nura’s.
The next day, Ronin sent listings. One was too expensive. One smelled like mold, according to him. One was too far. I answered only, Keep looking.
By Wednesday, he went quiet long enough that I wondered if the marriage had already ended. Then he sent a message with an address.
Small studio. Clean. Near the bus line. Can we see it tomorrow?
We saw it.
It was nothing impressive. One room, a narrow kitchenette, a bathroom with chipped tile, a window that faced another building. But when the owner opened the door, I felt my lungs fill in a way they had not in Elo’s big house.
Nobody was standing in the kitchen waiting to correct me.
Ronin signed the lease.
