No passion, no drama, no grand romantic gestures.
I thought this was exactly what a normal, healthy relationship looked like at our age—companionship without complications, comfort without intensity.
A few months later—four months, to be exact—Robert suggested we move in together.
“It makes financial sense,” he said practically, as if he were proposing a business arrangement rather than a major life change. “I’ve got a decent two-bedroom apartment in Park Slope. Rent’s reasonable because I’ve been there twelve years. You’re paying to stay with your daughter when you don’t need to. Why not pool our resources?”
I thought about it for a long time—longer than four months of dating probably warranted for such a big decision.
But the logic was sound, and more importantly, it would give Emma and Tom their space back.
My daughter would have freedom and privacy again, and I would have my own life, my own place that didn’t feel borrowed or temporary.
When I told Emma I was moving out, I tried to sound confident and excited.
“It’s time,” I said, packing my belongings into boxes while she sat on my bed watching with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “You two need your space. And I need to start building something of my own again.”
“Mom, you know you’re not a burden, right?” Emma said quietly. “You can stay as long as you want. We like having you here.”
