Later that afternoon, Eric found me in our room.
“I’m sorry.”
“You already said that.”
“I mean for before.”
I folded a shirt.
He sat on the bed.
“I should’ve backed you up.”
“Yes.”
“I grew up with him like this.”
“That isn’t an excuse.”
“I know.”
I looked at him.
“Then explain it.”
He was quiet.
Finally, he said, “When Dad decides something is about respect, nobody wins.”
I stopped folding.
“What does that mean?”
“It means if you challenge him, he turns the actual issue into whether you’re disrespecting him.”
That sounded painfully accurate.
“So everyone gives up.”
“Usually.”
“And that’s what you did.”
“Yes.”
I sat beside him.
“You know what bothered me more than the bathroom?”
He nodded.
“Breakfast.”
“Not even what he said.”
Eric looked at me.
“You.”
His face fell.
“I looked at you, and you were cutting your eggs like if you concentrated hard enough, neither of us would exist.”
“I know.”
“We are supposed to be saving for our house together. We’re supposed to be talking about kids. But the first time your dad reminded me that this is his territory and I have no standing here, you disappeared.”
“I know.”
“If we have children, I cannot be wondering whether you’ll go silent every time your father says, ‘My house, my rules.'”
Eric rubbed his face.
“You’re right.”
“I need more than that.”
“What do you need?”
I looked toward the hallway.
“We need to move.”
His head came up.
“We can’t afford it yet.”
“We can’t afford the house we want.”
“Exactly.”
“But we can afford an apartment.”
He stared at me.
That had been the thing neither of us wanted to say.
We had eleven thousand dollars saved.
Our goal was 30.
Living with his parents meant we could get there much faster.
Moving into an apartment would slow us down.
Maybe by a year.
Maybe longer.
But suddenly the money felt different.
We weren’t saving for independence.
We were renting our dignity with inconvenience instead of cash.
“I don’t want to blow the down payment.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then what?”
“We change the timeline.”
Eric was quiet.
“I really thought we could do eight months.”
“So did I.”
He nodded slowly.
Then asked, “Do you want to move because of the bathroom door?”
“No.”
“Because of Dad?”
“Partly.”
“And me.”
I appreciated that he said it.
“Partly.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
That evening, Eric told his parents we were looking for an apartment.
Dan stared at him.
“Because of this?”
“No,” Eric said.
“Then why?”
“Because we’re 34 years old and apparently living here is making all of us insane.”
Susan laughed.
Dan did not.
“You’ll waste $20,000 on rent.”
“Probably.”
“And delay buying a house.”
“Yes.”
“That’s stupid.”
Eric shrugged.
“Maybe.”
Dan looked at me.
“This is what you wanted.”
Before I could answer, Eric did.
“No.”
Dan turned.
“This is what I should’ve wanted before she had to ask.”
I looked at my husband.
That mattered.
Dan got quiet.
For the next week, he closed the bathroom door.
Every single time.
Hard.
The first few nights, he slammed it so loudly the picture frames shook.
I didn’t care.
Closed was closed.
Then something strange happened.
He stopped slamming it.
A week later, he even knocked on our bedroom door before walking in.
I nearly fell over.
Apparently, basic privacy was contagious.
We found an apartment twelve days after the hallway incident.
Small.
Older building.
Terrible kitchen counters.
No garage.
But it was ours.
The rent made me slightly nauseous.
The peace made up for it.
On moving day, Dan carried boxes without saying much.
Toward the end, he and I were alone in the kitchen.
I expected some final speech about how we’d regret wasting money.
Instead, he said, “I was rude.”
I almost dropped the mug I was wrapping.
“What?”
He looked annoyed already.
Apparently, apologizing caused him physical pain.
“At breakfast.”
I waited.
“And about the door.”
I said nothing.
He sighed.
“Don’t make me drag it out.”
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“You’ve made me look at you on the toilet for five months. I think I can make you finish an apology.”
