When I moved out of my old apartment, I made sure to clean everything thoroughly—baseboards, closets, even behind the fridge. The next day, my landlady called. Expecting complaints, I was surprised when she said, “Thank you for leaving it spotless. And… why aren’t you bitter like the others?”
I chuckled. “I guess I’ve had decent landlords.”
She paused. “Not really. Remember that freezing winter when the boiler broke and the ceiling leaked? You never once complained.”
Of course I’d been frustrated—but I chose patience over anger. Her words stayed with me, especially as I moved into a smaller, darker flat with higher rent and no hot water. I was picking up freelance work, nursing a recent breakup, and trying to adjust. But her question lingered in my mind.
One morning, I took my laptop to a nearby café to job-hunt. When the barista mentioned they were short-staffed, I asked if they were hiring. Two days later, I was working there—steaming milk, learning names, and finding unexpected comfort in honest, steady work.
One rainy afternoon, a regular named Mr. Harrington forgot his umbrella. I ran after him. He looked at me, surprised. “Young people don’t usually notice those things,” he said. “You’re different.” His words echoed what my landlady had said.
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