Two days passed.
Maria stood in front of the apartment building written on the card, her old Ghana-Must-Go bag slung over one shoulder and Junior clinging to her other hand. She had told herself she was just going to look. Just see the place and turn back.
But the moment she stepped into the compound, her breath caught.
The building stood tall and clean, surrounded by flowers and trimmed grass. There was a playground where children laughed freely. A security man smiled and opened the gate without question.
The caretaker was already expecting her. "Ah, you must be Madam Maria," he said. "Welcome. Everything is ready."
Inside, the apartment smelled of new paint and lemon polish. Two bedrooms. A working fridge. Water running from every tap. No rats. No leaking roof. Junior ran excitedly from room to room, his laughter echoing.
Maria stood in the middle of the living room, speechless.
She hadn't called Alexander.
She hadn't signed anything.
But somehow… this felt like home.
That night, after she bathed Junior and tucked him into bed, she sat by the window in her new sitting room, staring at the stars.
She picked up her phone.
Her fingers hovered over the screen, then typed slowly.
"We moved in. Thank you."
She hit send.
Within seconds, the reply came.
"I'm glad. Anything you need—just ask. No pressure. Just care."
Maria exhaled deeply, setting the phone down.
Maybe she hadn't forgiven him.
But for the first time in years, she wasn't just surviving.
She was breathing.