And yet, every year, I got the lease renewal notices, always addressed to me.
I’d ignored them until now.
Greg and I drew up the notice to terminate my part of the lease.
I had every legal right to walk away, especially since I hadn’t been residing there, and there was no formal agreement that I’d stay on.
I filed it, mailed the copy, and waited.
It landed at their house 3 days after New Year’s.
By that point, I’d already flown out to Portland, a city I’d only visited once, but always liked.
I booked a twoe stay at an Airbnb near the river while I figured things out.
On the second morning, I got a text from an unknown number.
“What is wrong with you?”
No context, but I knew the tone.
An hour later, Melanie called again, this time from a new number.
I didn’t pick up.
She left a voicemail, though.
Her voice was high and tight with stress.
“You canled the lease. Are you trying to make us homeless? Do you even care about anyone but yourself?”
I listened to the whole message twice.
Then I deleted it and took a long walk along the waterfront.
For the first time in years, I felt untethered.
And not in a bad way.
In a clean slate kind of way.
But the story doesn’t end there because a week later something unexpected happened.
They showed up unannounced.
I’d been in Portland for just over a week when it happened.
I’d found a rhythm in the quiet.
Mornings were peaceful.
Coffee from the corner shop. Walks along the Willamett.
The kind of life that felt simple and clean for once.
No buzzing phone, no silent obligations pressing down on me.
I’d started touring apartments.
Nothing big, just one-bedroom places with big windows and kitchens where I could actually cook something besides stress and takeout.
I even met with a company about a job in operations.
Low stress, decent pay, and nobody knew my last name.