Page 136 of Diego

Actually, I got informed.

The unit had been sitting longer than it should have because the listing photos were terrible and the seller wanted out quickly. The building was solid, the association finances were healthy, and the apartment needed almost nothing beyond paint and a few fixtures. I knew what I was looking at when other buyers apparently did not.

Occupational hazard.

Translation: I got a very good deal.

I settle into the corner of the couch with the pizza box open on the coffee table and take a cautious bite of cheese, pepperoni, and sauce.

My stomach considers for a moment, and I wait with bated breath.

Nothing terrible happens.

“Thank God.”

I take another bite.

For the first time all day, food actually tastes good.

I eat slowly, mostly because I have learned my lesson after the showing this afternoon. The dizziness had passed quickly, but it stayed in the back of my mind for the rest of the day. I ran to the store between appointments, grabbed some Pepto-Bismol and some food to force down, drank more water than usual, and managed the final showing without another incident.

Now I am exhausted in a way that feels disproportionate to what I actually did.

I spend entire days on my feet in impractical heels all the time. I walk properties, climb stairs, drive across the city, carry files, meet clients, come home late, and still have enough energy left to answer emails.

Tonight, just showering felt ambitious.

I reach for another slice and look around the apartment.

It is quiet.

Usually I like that.

After spending all day inside other people’s spaces, surrounded by clients and brokers and assistants and owners and contractors and whoever else needs something from me, coming home to somewhere that belongs entirely to me has always felt like relief.

Tonight it feels different.

Not bad exactly.

Just different.

My eyes drift toward the short hallway leading to the bedrooms.

The office door is open.

From the couch, I can see the edge of my desk, the lamp in the corner, and the narrow strip of wall beside the bookshelf.

The room is tiny.

I have always treated that as mildly inconvenient and nothing more.

Now I look at it and think about a crib.

I stare toward the doorway for a long moment, chewing slowly. A crib would fit.

Barely.

Until now, the office has been a compromise I barely thought about. Small room, useful room, good enough. Now I am mentally measuring walls and wondering where a changing table would go.