I was standing in my living room at midnight on a Wednesday holding a halfeaten sandwich when someone started pounding on my door like the building was on fire. Not knocking, pounding. For a second, I just froze. Nobody visits me that late. I live alone in a small apartment in Seattle where the walls are so thin you can hear your neighbors sneeze. My life is quiet now. Simple.
Work, gym, microwave dinners, sleep. I like it that way. After my divorce 2 years ago, quiet felt safe. The pounding came again, harder this time. I walked to the door, my heart beating faster than it should have. I checked the clock. 12:07 a.m. Whoever it was, it couldn’t be good. When I opened the door, I forgot how to breathe.
Emma, my ex-wife Clare’s younger sister. She stood there soaked from the rain, her hair stuck to her face, her clothes dripping onto the hallway carpet. Her eyes were red and swollen like she had been crying for hours. In her shaking hands, she held a large envelope pressed tightly against her chest. I hadn’t seen Emma in 5 years, not since my divorce from Clare was finalized.
Back then, Emma was wild and loud and always covered in paint. She was in art school arguing with everyone about everything. She was 23 the last time I saw her. Now she looked older. Not just older in age, older in spirit, like life had hit her hard and didn’t apologize. Ryan, she said, her voice breaking.
