I drop my purse on the foyer table and try to shake off the melancholy that’s been my constant companion lately. This is for the best. Jordan made his position clear, and I’m respecting his boundaries. The professional distance is appropriate, necessary, smart.
So why does it feel like I’m slowly suffocating?
The sound of the school bus rumbling down our street signals Ash’s imminent arrival, and I paste on my mom smile, the one that says everything is fine and normal and exactly as it should be.
But when Ash walks through the front door, he doesn’t have his usual after-school energy. His backpack hits the floor with a thud, and he slumps against the doorframe with a scowl.
“Hey, sweetheart. How was school?” I ask, immediately concerned by his mood.
“Fine,” he mutters, kicking at his backpack.
“Just fine? What happened in science class today?”
“Nothing.” He trudges toward the living room without his usual enthusiasm for sharing his day.
I follow him, noting the dejected slope of his shoulders. “Ash, what’s wrong? You seem upset about something.”
“I’m not upset.” But his voice cracks slightly, betraying him.
I sit down on the couch and pat the cushion beside me. “Come here. Talk to me.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to refuse. Then he flops down next to me with an exaggerated sigh.
“It’s just…” He stares at his hands. “Why doesn’t he come over anymore?”
My heart sinks. I’ve been so focused on my own hurt feelings that I haven’t fully considered how the change in our routine is affecting him.
“Jordan’s been busy getting ready to go back to work, remember?”
“But before, even when he was busy, we still hung out. We had dinners and worked on projects and stuff.” His voice gets smaller. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Oh, honey, no. You didn’t do anything wrong at all.” I reach over to smooth his hair back from his forehead. “Sometimes grown-ups… sometimes things just change.”
“Okay,” he says, but I can tell he’s not accepting it. Not really.
Ash had finally found a positive male figure in his life, someone who paid attention to him and took his interests seriously, and now that’s been taken away, through no fault of his own.
After he retreats to his room to start his homework, I head to my bedroom with my laptop. The familiar ritual of job hunting awaits—scanning listings, tweaking my résumé, crafting personalized cover letters.
I bookmark several promising options and start drafting applications. The sooner I find a real job, the sooner I can extract myself from this complicated situation with Jordan. I can give him my notice, recommend a replacement nanny service, and go back to being just the neighbor who occasionally waves when we’re both outside.
The thought should be liberating, but instead, it makes me feel hollow.
By the time I finish applying to six different positions, it’s getting dark outside. I can see lights on in Jordan’s kitchen, but I force myself to mind my own business and not look.
It’s weird, though. Sadly ironic. He’s alone in his house, and I’m alone in mine, with just the width of our yards between us when we could easily be together. It should be so simple, and yet it’s not.
“I’m making pasta for dinner,” I call to Ash, who’s on video games in the living room.
“Okay,” he responds without looking up.
As I boil water for pasta, pour a prepackaged salad into a bowl, and heat sauce in a pan, I let my mind wander to a possibility that’s been lurking at the edges of my consciousness for days. What if I sold the house?
The thought feels like betrayal at first. This is my grandmother’s house, the place where she raised me, where I’ve raised Ash. But it’s also too big for just the two of us. The maintenance costs are significant, the property taxes substantial. If I sold it and bought something smaller in a different neighborhood, I could reduce my monthly expenses significantly. I could give Ash and myself a fresh start somewhere that doesn’t come with daily reminders of what I almost had with Jordan.
The idea gains momentum as I stir the sauce. A smaller place, maybe a townhouse or condo across town. One that comes with a pool. Ash loves swimming.
Plus, I wouldn’t have to see Jordan’s car in the driveway every day. It would be somewhere I could start over without the constant reminder of my poor judgment and hurt feelings.
