4October2025
Tonight I finally managed to settle into the flat I found through a rather flimsy advert in the local paper: Flat, city centre, cheap, urgent. The price was shockingly low a battered parquet floor, peeling window sills, yet the ceilings were high and the windows enormous. After my divorce I wasnt looking for a house so much as a refuge, a place where nobody would ask, Are you sure you wont regret this?
I received the keys on Friday evening. The city already smelled of damp leaves. October always feels like the season when everything falls apart before it can be pieced together again.
My first night was restless. Wrapped in a blanket I perched on the windowsill, eyes fixed on the opposite building. From across the courtyard, the fifthfloor flat was easy to see: a balcony dotted with crimson petunias, a soft warm glow in the living room. A family lived there.
I watched a tall man in a grey sweater, a woman with a sleek braid, thin as something out of an old yogurt advert, and two children a little girl and a boy setting the table. The girl chased the boy, his hand clasped around hers, the mother smiled, the father uncorked a bottle of wine. Their laughter drifted even through the glass.
I sank back onto my pillow. How long had I gone without hearing laughter at home?
The next morning I sat on the same sill, sipping coffee, and observed them breakfasting. The man read the newspaper, the woman stroked the girls hair, the boy darted around with a toy car.
During the day I unpacked my boxes. In the evening I walked to the corner shop that sat just beyond the garden. At the entrance I ran into the woman from the flat opposite, lugging bags of apples and cherry soda. An apple rolled under my foot.
Oops! Sorry, she laughed, Everything keeps slipping from my hands, as usual!
I caught the apple and smiled.
Never mind. Need a hand? she asked.
Would be lovely! Im Olivia Hart. You just moved in, right?
Just a few days ago. Mara Clarke, I replied.
Then you must try my strudel! Its a family tradition to treat new neighbours. Can I bring it over?
An hour later Olivia arrived with a steaming tray, the scent of cinnamon filling the hallway, and a small scoop of vanilla icecream for dessert balance. She was light on her feet, in jeans and a teasing grin, like a cat with a high tail.
We shared tea and chatted. Olivia told me:
We moved here five years ago. Luck smiled on us an investor came along and we renovated. My husband works in IT, the kids go to a local academy. Im at home now, thinking of opening a mumcafé, a place where mums can bring strollers, brew coffee and just talk without hurrying.
I listened, smiled, and felt something quiet yet sharp stir inside me a pang of envy, perhaps.
It sounds perfect, everything so real, I said.
We try, Olivia nodded.
After she left, I turned back to the window. In the opposite flat, Olivia stood at the stove, her husband slipped his arm around her from behind, and the children tumbled and squealed. I sighed. This is how it should be: warm, safe, driven by love.
I switched off the light, but even as I drifted to sleep I could still see those alluring windows opposite, like a cinema screen playing a film I had missed.
—
Mara, you home? Ive brought a honey cake!
Olivia knocked, a pie in one hand and a knitted bag in the other. Her cheeks were pink, eyes sparkling, but a fresh bruise lingered on her left side, just below the collarbone.
A bruise? I asked, concerned.
She tugged at the edge of her sweater. Oh, that? Im clumsy. I left a cupboard door ajar, bent over to close it and well, you know.
I wanted to believe her but said nothing.
Olivia became a regular. At first once a week, then almost daily, with pies, salads, stories. She explained their honesty night every Saturday: a halfhour venting session, then laughter. Works like a charm, she claimed. When I asked about the kids, she said they never argue in front of them; they must see the parents as a team.
I listened, but the feeling that something was too perfect grew stronger. It felt rehearsed, textbooklike.
One evening, after a shop run, she confided:
I used to be completely different advertising, coffeefuelled nights, endless taxis. Then I met him. He turned my world upside down, in a good way. He taught me to be myself, not to play roles or lie.
I nodded, yet her words sounded as if taken from a selfhelp brochure on womens happiness.
A few days later I stood at my window out of habit. In the opposite flat a dimness fell, then a flash of light, a scream first male, then female, then a childs wail. The door slammed shut. The lights went out.
The next morning, in the lift, Olivia wore sunglasses despite the overcast. All good? I asked.
Fine, just a bit burnt out. It happens, she replied, brushing it off. I nodded, unsure.
When I visited her, the children sat silently on the carpet, clutching toys as if they were shields. I asked gently, Are you sure everythings alright?
Olivia froze, kettle in hand, then sat slowly.
You know, sometimes I feel I live in a showcase. Everyone sees the happy family, the tidy wife, the obedient kids. At night I wake up feeling like Im shouting, but no one hears.
She hesitated. Should I?
No, thats not it, she interrupted. He doesnt hit. Hes just tired. Im not perfect either. Who is?
That night I watched them again. Their tea, their laughter, but now I noticed the girl flinch when her father raised his voice, Olivias eyes dart away, the husbands words pressed through clenched teeth. A beautiful fairytale, yet beneath it, sharp teeth clicked.
—
I kept wondering: what if Im wrong? What if this is all my projection? After the divorce I stopped trusting men, relationships, even myself. Perhaps envy sharpened my vigilance. Yet every new encounter with Olivia heightened my anxiety.
One afternoon Olivia arrived with pancakes, her hand stiff, barely bending.
Everything okay? I asked.
Just a muscle pull. Yoga isnt a joke, she said, flashing that same polished smile.
You can trust me if you want, she added, her tone changing suddenly, as if the mask slipped.
She then burst out, Mara, please dont start. Hes not a monster, just exhausted. He works hard for us, and I I can be unbearable. I know that.
The bruise, Olivia. You wear glasses on cloudy days. You whisper to the kids.
Its necessary.
What does necessary mean?
If you dont get it, youve never really been married.
I had no answer. Then she left.
Later that night I watched a drama on TV, but the words didnt reach me. My heart hammered, a lowgrade panic before a storm.
Then came a sound: a dull thud, a scream, a sharp male voice: Quiet! I said quiet! Something crashed, metal screeched. I froze, then rose, moved to the window. The opposite flat was lit, shadows darting like a stage rehearsal. A scream, then a child’s cry, then silence.
My hands trembled as I dialed 999. The operator sounded calm, almost soothing.
Are you sure this is domestic violence?
Yes, I heard blows and screams. Its not the first time.
Did the neighbours call?
I I dont have any proof, just me and the night.
She paused. Well log the call, a patrol will be sent. Its best you stay out of it.
The police arrived forty minutes later. I heard footsteps, muffled conversations, then the door slammed and silence returned. Through the window I saw the husband, the man from Olivias flat, standing politely with documents in hand, speaking to the officers. He was courteous, his demeanor calm. Olivia was nowhere to be seen.
The next morning a soft knock came at my door.
Olivia, she whispered, eyes swollen, hair hastily tied, fingers trembling.
Can I come in?
I let her in, set the kettle on.
Did you call the police? she asked, voice breaking.
It was me. Im sorry.
She sank into a chair, staring at a point on the wall.
I thought if I were a good wife if I smiled, cooked, listened he would love me, become softer. But he only tightened his grip, a little more each week.
You can leave.
Where? With two kids? I have no job, no family, nothing.
You have me.
Olivias eyes welled up, then she pressed her palm to her lips and burst into tears.
Youre the only one who doesnt pretend not to see. Everyone else looks away. Even at the academy, people know but say nothing. Im not a shadow.
Youre not a rescuer. Just a neighbour.
She fell silent, then stood.
Ill go. Not today, but I will.
I nodded, feeling perhaps I was more a flicker in anothers window than a beacon, but at least a warm one.
—
The night was thick, like overcooked jam. Darkness filled the windows, silence hung in the air, only the rain whispered on the sill.
When I heard a knock, I first thought I imagined it, then it came again, cautiously, twice.
I opened the door, breath caught.
Olivia, in a halfopen robe, slippers, no umbrella, hair drenched, face streaked with tears. A fresh bruise marred her cheek, a small cut on her lip, and clutched in her hands was a stuffed rabbit.
May I just stay for a while? she whispered.
I let her in.
She curled up in the corner of the sofa, hugging the rabbit, shoulders trembling.
He says Im ruining his life. If I dont learn to be silent, hell teach me. Then he hit me. Not hard, but it wasnt the first time.
The children? I asked.
Theyre asleep. I didnt wake them. I left when he was on the couch.
Olivia, stay. Stay forever.
I cant. I have nowhere else. He has money, connections. Im nobody. I cant even get a job, they wont take a mother with two kids.
I sat beside her, looking not at the wound but at the core of her being.
Youre a person, Olivia. You can leave. There are shelters, temporary housing. Ill help you. Youre not alone.
But Im scared, Mara. Im exhausted of fearing and of hoping.
Im here. Im not a hero, but I wont turn away.
She rested her head on my shoulder, hugging the rabbit tighter.
Thank you. Youre the only one who doesnt look away, who doesnt say Its your fault. You just are.
Ill stay until you have the strength to say Enough.
We sat in silence, listening to the rain wash away old hurts.
Two weeks later Olivia left, no suitcase, just a backpack, a bag of childrens clothes, and a neat folder of documents.
I held that folder as we stepped out into the night, the whole block asleep. The children walked quietly, the girl clasping her brothers hand, the rabbit poking out of the backpack like a distress signal.
The flat I found for Olivia was modest: a single room, peeling bathroom tiles, an ancient fridge. But it was quiet, and there was no one shouting, no one ordering.
This is our fresh start, Olivia said as the kids finally fell asleep on inflatable mattresses. You, Mara youre the first line on this page. Thank you.
I only managed a nod.
The weeks turned into a whirlwind. I called charities, spoke to solicitors, filled out forms. Olivia learned to work freelance, bought groceries on a list, slept with the lights off without fear. The kids slowly adjusted. One afternoon a shy boy handed me a drawing: two women, two children, the words For Mara above it.
Spring arrived. Snow melted in a single night, and something inside me thawed as well.
I woke early, made coffee, and, as always, walked to the window.
The opposite windows were empty. The family that once lived there had moved on, not just from the flat but from the life theyd built inside a showcase.
I watched and felt a calm wash over me. No longer jealous, no longer hurt, just at peace. My home was right here, in this kitchen, in this life.
A knock came at the door. I opened it to find Olivia in a coat, cheeks flushed, the children trailing behind her the girl with the stuffed rabbit, the boy with a jar of jam.
We thought, Olivia said, maybe you baked something today?
I laughed. Come in. I just took it out of the oven.
The door swung wide, opening not just onto a flat but onto a new morning, onto a life where perfection isnt required, only honesty.
