I closed my bedroom door, opened my laptop, and began looking at properties.
Not large houses.
Not luxury condominiums in crowded towers.
Small homes.
Quiet homes.
Places where I could hear myself think.
Somewhere near the sea.
I had always loved the ocean.
Arturo once promised that after retirement we would spend at least a month every year somewhere with a view of the water.
We managed it twice before he became ill.
After his death, I stopped traveling.
There was always a reason.
The house needed something.
Someone might need me.
There would be another year.
Now, scrolling through listings, I found a small coastal community in Batangas.
One bungalow caught my attention.
Two bedrooms.
White walls.
A shaded veranda.
A modest garden.
The beach within walking distance.
I stared at the photographs for several minutes.
Then I sent the listing to Ramon.
Could you help me look into this property?
His reply arrived twenty minutes later.
Of course.
That night, I slept through until morning for the first time in six months.
The following week, I called Teresa Lim, a real estate broker recommended by a friend.
She came to the house on a Tuesday afternoon while Lily was out.
Teresa walked slowly through every room, examined the hardwood floors, looked over the garden, and asked careful questions about maintenance and repairs.
Then she gave me an estimated selling range.
I stared at her.
“Are you certain?”
She smiled.
“The location is excellent, Mrs. Ellington. The lot is unusually large, and the house has been very well maintained.”
I sat down.
Arturo and I had never thought of the property as an investment.
It had simply been our home.
But its value had risen enough that I could buy something smaller, fund a comfortable retirement, and still keep substantial savings for whatever the future brought.
Teresa watched my reaction.
“Are you sure you want to sell?”
I looked through the window toward Arturo’s roses.
“No.”
She seemed surprised.
I smiled faintly.
“I’m not sure I want to say goodbye to the memories. But I’m sure I don’t want to live here anymore.”
Teresa nodded.
“That’s an important distinction.”
We discussed the timetable.
I asked her to be discreet until I had a clear plan.
It was not about deceiving Lily.
It was about making a decision without being pressured out of it before I had even finished understanding my options.
That evening, Emma called from Cebu.
“Margie, Lily called me.”
I closed my eyes.
“What did she say?”
“She says you’re acting strangely.”
I almost laughed.
“Strangely?”
“She says you’ve gotten very quiet and won’t tell her where you go.”
I looked toward the kitchen.
“Emma, do you remember when I used to sing while I cooked?”
“Of course.”
“I haven’t sung in six months.”
My sister went silent.
Then she asked, “What happened?”
So I told her.
Everything.
When I repeated Lily’s words from the kitchen, Emma gasped.
“She said that to you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Margie.”
My eyes filled.
Emma was quiet for a moment.
Then she said, “Come stay with me.”
I smiled through my tears.
“Thank you.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m selling the house.”
There was a pause.
Then Emma said, “Good.”
I laughed despite myself.
“You don’t think I’m being dramatic?”
“You’re seventy, not seven. You get to decide where you live.”
I wiped my eyes.
“And Margie?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t spend the rest of your life trying to earn permission to be comfortable.”
Two weeks later, Teresa brought a serious buyer.
Actually, two buyers.
A married couple in their fifties, both doctors, with three grown children. They wanted enough room for family gatherings.
They loved the house.
More importantly, they loved the garden.