Flat opposite
Marion Harper got the flat after answering a cramped ad: Terraced house, city centre, cheap, urgent. It looked suspiciously cheap, with scuffed parquet, peeling window sills, but lofty ceilings and huge windows.
After her divorce, Marion wasnt looking for a roof so much as a refuge, a space where nobody asked, Are you sure you wont regret this?
She collected the keys on a Friday evening. The town already smelled of damp leaves. October the month when everything crumbles and then rebuilds itself.
The first night she hardly slept. Wrapped in a blanket, she perched on the sill and stared at the windows opposite. The building across the courtyard was a palmsize map: fifth floor, a balcony blooming with crimson petunias, a soft warm glow in the sitting room. A family lived there.
She saw a tall man in a grey jumper, a slender woman with a braid, as if shed stepped out of an old yoghurt advert, and two children a little girl and a boy. They were setting the table together. The girl leapt, the boy held her hand, the woman smiled. The man uncorked a bottle of red wine. Their laughter rippled through the glass.
Marion sank onto her pillow. How long had she gone without hearing laughter at home?
The next morning she sipped tea on the same sill, watching them again. The man read a paper, the woman brushed the girls hair, the boy raced a toy car across the floor.
During the day Marion unpacked boxes. In the evening she walked to the corner shop just across the courtyard. At the lift landing she collided with the woman from the opposite flat, who balanced a bag of apples and a bottle of cherry soda. An apple rolled under Marions foot.
Oh! Sorry, the woman giggled. Everything keeps slipping from my hands, as usual!
Marion caught the apple and smiled.
No problem. Can I help? the woman asked.
It would be lovely! Im Olivia Hart. You moved in recently, right?
Yes, a few days ago. Marion.
Then you must try my strudel! Its a family tradition to treat new neighbours. May I bring it over?
An hour later Olivia arrived, cradling a steaming tin scented with cinnamon, a glass of vanilla icecream for dessert balance. She was lightfooted like a cat, in jeans, with a high ponytail and a grin that stretched too wide.
They poured tea and talked. Olivia said, We moved here five years ago. We were lucky an investor appeared, we renovated. My husband works in IT, the kids go to the local academy. Im home now, but Im thinking of opening a motherandbaby café.
A motherandbaby café? Marion asked.
Kind of a place where you can bring a stroller, chat, not rush.
Marion listened, smiled, and felt a quiet, sharp sting inside something like envy.
You have it all so real, she said.
We try, Olivia nodded.
When Olivia left, Marion returned to the window. Across the courtyard, Olivia stood at the stove. Her husband slipped behind her, hugging her from behind. She laughed. The children tumbled, squealed, and fell.
Marion exhaled. This was how it should be: warm, safe, born of love. She switched off the light, yet even as sleep approached she could see the opposite windows, flickering like a cinema screen showing a film shed missed.
* * *
Marion, you home? Ive brought a honey cake! Olivia knocked, holding a cake in one hand and a knit bag in the other. Her cheeks were rosy, eyes glittering, but a fresh bruise like a strap mark sat just below her collarbone.
Are you alright? Marion asked.
Olivia tugged at her sweater collar. Oh, this? Im clumsy. I didnt close the cupboard door and then leaned over silly accident.
Marion didnt believe her but said nothing.
Olivia began visiting more often. At first once a week, then almost daily, bearing pies, salads, stories. We have a Honesty Day every Saturday, she explained. We tell each other what irritates us, argue for half an hour, then laugh. It works. She added, We never argue in front of the kids. They must see us as a team.
Marion listened, yet the scene grew too perfect, too textbook.
One evening, walking home from the shop together, Olivia confessed, I used to be so different. I worked in advertising, lived on coffee and taxis. Then I met him. He turned my world upside down.
In what way? Marion asked.
In a good way, of course! He taught me to be myself, not to play, not to lie.
Marion nodded, but the words felt rehearsed, as if lifted from a selfhelp manual.
A few days later, Marion stood at her window out of habit. The flat opposite was dim, then a flash of light, a shout a mans, then a womans, then a childs cry. The door slammed. The lights went out.
Morning found Olivia in the hallway, wearing sunglasses despite the overcast sky.
Everything okay? Marion asked.
Fine. We just burned out. It happens. Dont worry. Olivia adjusted her scarf.
Marion didnt know what to say, but she nodded.
When Marion visited, the children sat on the carpet, silent, clutching toys as if hiding behind them. Olivia set out tea. Marion asked gently, Are you sure everythings alright?
Olivia froze, kettle in hand, then sat slowly. Sometimes I feel Im living in a shop window. Everyone sees the happy family, the tidy wife, the obedient kids. At night I wake up shouting, but no one hears.
Maybe you should Marion began.
Dont, Olivia cut in. He doesnt hit. Hes just tired. Im not sugar either. Whos perfect?
That night Marion watched them again. The laughter returned, but she saw the daughter flinch when the father raised his voice, saw Olivia avert her gaze, heard the husbands words bite through clenched teeth. A beautiful fairytale with sharp teeth hidden inside.
* * *
Marion increasingly wondered whether she was projecting, whether envy had sharpened her vigilance after the divorce. Each new encounter with Olivia added a layer of anxiety.
One afternoon Olivia arrived with pancakes, her hand trembling, almost not bending.
Everything okay? Marion asked.
Just a pulled muscle. Yoga isnt a joke, Olivia replied, flashing the same plastic smile.
You can trust me if you want.
Olivias tone shifted, as if a switch had been flicked. Marion, stop. Hes not a monster, just exhausted. He works so we can live, and I I can be unbearable. I know that.
Youre bruised, Olivia. You wear glasses when its cloudy, you whisper to the kids, Marion observed.
Exactly, Olivia said. If you dont understand, youve never truly been married.
Marion had no reply. Olivia left.
Later Marion watched a drama on the couch, but the dialogue faded. A thudding sound came first, then a scream, then a sharp male voice: Quiet! I said quiet! The noise cracked like something toppling over, followed by screeching metal.
Marion froze, rose, and went to the window. The opposite flat glowed, shadows flickering like a rehearsal. A scream, then a childs wail, and then silence.
She dialed 999, her hands trembling. The operators voice was calm, almost soothing.
Are you sure this is violence?
Yes, I heard blows, a scream. Its not the first time.
Did the neighbours call? Any evidence?
I Marion stopped. There was no evidence, only darkness and the feeling that if she didnt act now, things would worsen.
The call will be logged. Patrol will come, but its best you stay out of it.
A patrol arrived forty minutes later. Footsteps and muffled voices echoed, then the door slammed and silence resumed. From the window Marion saw the husband, Olivias spouse, standing with police, polite, documents in hand. Olivia never appeared.
That night a soft knock sounded at Marions door. It was Olivia, eyes swollen, hair hastily tied, fingers trembling.
May I come in? she whispered.
Marion let her in, set a kettle on.
Did you call the police?
Yes. Im sorry, I had no other choice.
Olivia sank into a chair, staring at a point in the wall. I thought if I were a good wife smile, cook, listen hed love me, soften. But each week he squeezes tighter.
You can leave, Marion said.
Where? With two kids? I have no job, no family, nothing.
You have me.
Olivias eyes widened, then she pressed a hand to her lips and sobbed. Youre the only one who doesnt pretend not to see. Everyone else turns away, even at my daughters school. But Im not hidden.
I’m not a rescuer. Im just a neighbour.
Youre not an object.
Silence stretched, then Olivia stood. Ill go. Not today, but I will.
Marion nodded, feeling herself become a small, steady light in a foreign window not bright, but warm.
* * *
The night was thick like boiled jam. Darkness pooled in the windows, the air hushed, rain whispering on the sill.
When Marion heard a knock, she first thought it imagined, then again, twice, cautious.
She opened the door, breath caught.
Olivia, in an open robe, slippers, no umbrella, hair damp, face streaked with tears, a fresh slash on her cheek, a bruise beside it, clutching a plush rabbit.
May I just stay for a while? she whispered.
Marion stepped aside.
Olivia curled up on the sofa corner, hugging the rabbit, shoulders trembling.
He he said I ruin his life. If I dont learn to be silent, hell teach me. He hit me, not hard, but its not the first time.
Are the children safe?
Theyre asleep. I didnt wake them. I left when he went to bed.
Olivia, stay. Stay forever.
I cant. I have nowhere else. He has money, connections. Im nothing. I wont find work. With the kids, no one will take me.
Marion sat beside her, looking not at the wound but at the core of the person.
Youre a person. You can leave. There are shelters, temporary flats. Ill find help. Youre not alone.
But Im scared, Marion. Im tired of fearing and of hoping even more.
Im here. Not a saviour, but I wont turn away.
Olivia finally rested her head on Marions shoulder, hugging the rabbit like a child.
Thank you. Youre the only one who doesnt look away, who doesnt blame me. Just exist.
And Ill stay until you have the strength to say enough.
They sat in silence, listening to rain erasing old hurts.
Two weeks later Olivia left, no suitcase, only a backpack, a bag of childrens clothes, a neat folder of papers.
Marion held the folder as they stepped out into the night, the building asleep. The children walked quietly, the girl clutching her brothers hand, the plush rabbit poking out of the pack like a distress signal.
The flat Marion found for Olivia was modest: a single room, a peeling bathroom, an ancient fridge. It was quiet, and there was no one shouting, no one ordering, no one throwing things.
This is where we start fresh, Olivia said as the children slept on inflatable mattresses. You, Marion youre the first line of this new page. Thank you.
Marion only nodded.
Then everything spun. Marion called shelters, spoke to lawyers, filed paperwork. Olivia learned to earn freelance work, bought food from a list, slept with the lights off without fear.
The children adjusted slowly. One day the boy handed Marion a drawing: two women, two children, the caption At Marions.
Spring arrived. One night the snow melted, a warm throb rose in Marions chest. She woke early, brewed coffee, and, as before, walked to the window.
The opposite windows were empty.
The woman who had lived there had leftnot just the flat, but the whole life shed trapped herself in, the showcase of the good wife.
Marion watched, feeling no envy, no pain, no loneliness. Just peace.
Her home was here, in this kitchen, in this life.
A knock sounded, and she went to answer.
Olivia stood on the doorstep, coat on, cheeks flushed, the children behind her. The girl clutched the plush rabbit, the boy a jar of jam.
Did you bake anything today? Olivia asked.
Marion laughed. Come in. I just took it out of the oven.
The door swung wide, opening not just onto a flat but onto a morning, onto a life where perfection wasnt required, only truth.
