Apartment Opposite
I stumbled upon the flat after a latenight advert in the local paper: Twobed terraced house, city centre, cheap, must see ASAP. The place looked dodgy scuffed parquet, peeling windowsills, but the ceilings were high and the windows huge.
After my divorce I wasnt looking for a home so much as a sanctuary, a spot where nobody asks, Are you sure you wont regret this? I collected the keys on a Friday evening. The streets already smelled of damp leaves; October in York is the month when everything falls apart and then tries to stitch itself together again.
The first night I lay awake, wrapped in a blanket, perched on the sill and stared across the courtyard. The neighbours flat was right there, five storeys up, a balcony dotted with bright petunias, a warm glow spilling from the living room. A family lived there.
From the window I saw a tall man in a grey jumper, a woman with a braid who looked like shed stepped out of an old yoghurt advert, and two kids a little girl and a boy. They were setting the table together. The girl hopped about, the boy held her hand, the mother smiled, and the father uncorked a bottle of red wine. Their laughter carried through the glass.
I sank onto my pillow and thought, how long had it been since Id heard laughter in a house?
The next morning I sipped tea on the same sill and watched them again. The father read the newspaper, the mother ran her fingers through the girls hair, the boy raced a toy car across the floor.
During the day I unpacked boxes. That evening I walked to the corner shop, just across the courtyard. Outside the lift I bumped into the neighbours wife, balancing a bag of apples and a bottle of cherry soda.
Oops! Sorry, she giggled. Everythings slipping from my hands today, as usual!
An apple rolled under my foot. I caught it and smiled.
No worries. Need a hand? she asked.
Would be great! Im Olivia, youre new, right? she said.
James, I replied.
You must try my apple crumble! Its a family tradition to welcome newcomers. Can I bring it over?
An hour later Olivia appeared with a steaming tin, the scent of cinnamon filling the hall, and a small scoop of vanilla icecream for balance. She was light on her feet, wearing denim and a cheeky grin.
We sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea, and she told me:
We moved here five years ago. Luck smiled on us an investor helped fund a full renovation. My husband works in IT, the kids are at the local academy. Im still at home but thinking of opening a motherandbaby café.
A motherandbaby café? I asked.
Exactly a cosy spot where mums can bring prams, chat over a cuppa, and not rush.
I listened, smiled, and felt a quiet, sharp stir inside something like envy.
You have such a nice life, I said.
We try, Olivia nodded.
When she left, I turned back to the opposite window. Olivia was at the stove, her husband slipped his arm around her from behind and they both laughed as the children tumbled and squealed.
I sighed. This is how it should be: warm, safe, built on love.
I flicked the lights off, but even as I drifted to sleep the opposite windows beckoned like a cinema screen, showing a film Id missed.
—
James, are you home? Ive brought a honey cake!
Olivia knocked, holding the cake in one hand and a knitted tote in the other. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright, but a fresh bruise darkened the left side of her neck, as if from a strap.
Youre okay? I asked.
She brushed off her sweater. Oh, that? I just knocked over a cupboard door and bent down awkwardly. Silly, really.
I didnt believe her, but I said nothing.
Olivia started visiting weekly, then almost daily, bringing pastries, salads, gossip. She told me, Every Saturday we have a truth night we each say what irritates us about the other, argue for half an hour, then laugh. It actually works.
The kids? I probed.
We never argue in front of them. They need to see us as a team.
I listened, yet a nagging feeling grew: everything was too perfect, textbooknice.
One evening, walking back from the shop together, she confessed, I used to be a copywriter, living off coffee and taxis. Then I met my husband. He turned my world upside down in a good way. He taught me to be myself, not to wear a mask.
I nodded, but her words sounded rehearsed, as if lifted from a selfhelp manual.
A few days later I stood at my window out of habit. The flat opposite was dim, then a flash of light, a scream, a male shout, a childs whimper. The door slammed.
The lights went out within a minute.
The next morning, Olivia knocked at my landing, wearing sunglasses despite the overcast sky.
Everything alright? I asked.
Yeah, just weve had a rough night. No point dwelling on it, she replied, adjusting her scarf.
I didnt know what to say, but I nodded.
When I visited their flat later, the children sat silently on the carpet, clutching toys like shields. Olivia set out tea, and I asked gently, Are you sure youre okay?
She froze, then slowly sat down.
I sometimes feel like Im living in a shop window. Everyone sees the happy family, the tidy house, the obedient kids. But at night I wake up feeling as if Im screaming and no one hears.
Maybe you should I began.
No, she cut in sharply. He doesnt hit. Hes just tired. Im not perfect either. Who is?
That night I watched them through the glass again. Laughter still echoed, but the little girl flinched when her father raised his voice, Olivia averted her gaze, and the husbands words were tightlipped.
A beautiful fairytale, yet beneath the surface teeth were grinding.
—
I kept asking myself: what if Im wrong? What if all this is just my projection? After the divorce I stopped trusting men, relationships, even myself. Perhaps jealousy sharpened my vigilance.
Each new encounter with Olivia added to my anxiety.
One afternoon she arrived with pancakes, her hand trembling, almost rigid.
Everything alright? I asked.
Just a muscle strain. Yoga isnt a joke, she replied, flashing that same polished smile.
You can trust me if you want, she whispered, then her tone softened.
She suddenly became distant, as if a switch had been flipped.
James, please dont start. Hes not a monster. Hes just exhausted, working to keep us afloat. I can be unbearable sometimes. I know that, she said, tears welling.
You even have a bruise, Olivia. You wear glasses when its cloudy. You whisper to the kids, I pointed out.
Thats how it has to be, she replied.
What does has to be mean? I pressed.
If you havent been married for real, you wont understand, she snapped.
I was at a loss for words. Then she left.
Later that night I watched a series, but the dialogue faded. My heart thumped, a lowgrade panic rising like a storm.
Then came a sound: a dull thump, a scream, a womans cry, followed immediately by a harsh male voice, Quiet! I said quiet! The room shook as something was knocked over, metal grinding.
I froze, then rose, and moved to the opposite window. The flat was lit, shadows flitting like a rehearsal. A scream, then a childs sob. Then silence.
I dialed 999, my hands shaking. The operators voice was calm, almost lullabylike.
Are you sure this is a case of violence? she asked.
Yes, I heard blows, screams. Its not the first time.
Did the neighbours call? she pressed.
I hesitated. No one else had called. Only me, the night, and the dread that if I didnt act now, things would get worse.
Well log the call and send patrol. Its best you stay clear of the scene, she advised.
The police arrived after forty minutes. I heard footsteps, muffled conversations, then the front door slammed and silence returned.
Through the glass I saw the husband, Thomas, standing politely with officers, papers in hand. Olivia was nowhere to be seen.
The next morning a soft knock sounded at my door.
Olivia, eyes swollen, hair hastily tied, fingers trembling, stood there.
May I come in? she whispered.
I let her in, set the kettle on.
Did you call them? I asked.
Yes. Im sorry, I had no other choice, she said, voice breaking.
She sank into a chair, staring at a point on the wall.
I thought if I were a good wife smile, cook, listen hed love me. Hed soften. Hed see my effort. But each week he just squeezes tighter.
You could leave, I offered.
Where? With two kids? I have no job, no family, nothing.
Im here for you.
Olivias eyes rose, then she pressed a hand to her mouth and wept.
Youre the only one who doesnt look away. Everyone else turns their heads. Even at the academy, people know but say nothing. It feels like being trapped in a dark cellar.
Its not a cellar for me, I replied.
She sat in silence for a long while, then stood.
Ill go. Not today, but I will.
I nodded, feeling a strange warmth, as if I were a flicker of light in someone elses window not bright, but steady.
—
The night was thick as jam, darkness pressed the windows, the only sound the faint whisper of rain on the sill. When a knock came, I thought it was imagination, but it came again, gently, twice.
I opened the door. Olivia stood there in a halfopen robe, slippers, no umbrella. Her hair was damp, her face streaked with tears, a fresh bruise on her cheek, a plush rabbit clutched in her arms.
May I just stay for a while? she whispered.
I let her in.
She sank on the sofa, hugging the rabbit, shoulders trembling.
He says Im ruining his life. If I dont learn to be quiet hell teach me. Then he hit me. Not hard, but it wasnt the first time, she said.
The children?
Theyre asleep. I didnt wake them. I left when he went to bed.
Olivia, stay. Lets get you somewhere safe, I urged.
I cant. He has money, connections. Im nobody. I cant find work. With the kids, no one will take us.
I sat beside her, looking not at the wound but at the core of her fear.
Youre a person, Olivia. You can leave. There are shelters, temporary flats. Ill find them. Youre not alone.
But Im scared, James. Im exhausted of fearing and even more of hoping, she admitted.
Im here. Not a saviour, but I wont turn away.
She stayed quiet for a long time, then rested her head on my shoulder, hugging the rabbit tighter.
Thank you. Youre the only one who doesnt say its your fault. You just exist.
Ill stay until youre strong enough to say enough, I promised.
We sat in silence, listening to rain erasing old hurts.
Two weeks later Olivia left, no suitcase, only a backpack, a bag of childrens clothes, and a tidy folder of documents.
I held that folder as we stepped out into the night, the building asleep. The children walked handinhand, the girl clutching the plush rabbit like a lifeline.
The flat I found for Olivia was modest: one room, peeling bathroom tiles, an ancient fridge. But it was quiet, and there was no one shouting, no one demanding, no one throwing things.
This is a fresh start, Olivia said as the kids slept on inflatable mattresses. You, James youre the first line of this new page. Thank you.
I just nodded.
The weeks that followed were a blur of calls to charities, meetings with solicitors, filling out forms. Olivia learned to earn from freelance work, bought groceries from a list, slept with the lights off without dread.
One day the little boy handed me a drawing: two women, two children, and the words For James written above.
Spring arrived, the snow melted, and something thawed in my own heart.
I rose early, brewed coffee, and went to the window as usual.
The opposite windows were empty.
The woman who once lived there had moved on, not just out of the flat but out of the life shed forced herself into, out of the showcase of the good wife.
I watched, feeling no longer jealous, no longer hurt, just calm. My home was here, in this kitchen, in this life.
A knock at the door and I opened it.
Olivia stood there in a coat, cheeks flushed, the children trailing behind. The little girl clutched the rabbit, the boy carried a jar of jam.
Did you bake anything today? she asked.
I laughed.
Come in. I just pulled a fresh loaf out of the oven.
The door swung wide, not just into a flat but into a morning, into a life where perfection isnt required, only honesty.
Lesson:You dont need a flawless picture to belong; you just need to be present, compassionate, and brave enough to step into the messy, real world.
