Now, Deborah and I—legal strangers—were sharing a roof.
Living with Deborah felt like tiptoeing through a quiet battlefield.
She didn’t yell or threaten; instead, she made every small moment personal.
At night, she tore through the kitchen—opening cabinets, slamming drawers, clattering pans—like she was hosting midnight feasts for restless ghosts.
In the mornings, right as I turned on the faucet to brush my teeth, the water would suddenly shut off.
“Seriously?” I muttered at the sink.
When I confronted her, she simply shrugged. “Pipes are old.”
But the smug smile on her face said otherwise.
Then my phone charger vanished. Then my keys. I eventually found them in bizarre places, like the pantry or under a couch cushion.
Petty? Yes. Effective? Also yes.
Yet beneath her stubborn façade, I sensed something else—a sadness, a kind of desperation that clung to her like a shadow.
