Chapter 4 - Fifty-Three Missed Calls
By late afternoon, the panic had officially begun.
I had spent the day touring two small apartments on the other side of town. The first was a dingy basement studio that smelled faintly of damp carpet. The second was a bright, second-floor one-bedroom apartment in a quiet, well-maintained complex overlooking a municipal park. It had hardwood floors, a compact kitchen with modern appliances, and a balcony just big enough for a folding chair and a potted fern.
I signed the lease on the spot, paying the security deposit and first month’s rent directly from my savings account—the same account they assumed was an endless piggy bank for their household emergencies.
When I walked out of the leasing office and turned my phone back on to check for any urgent work emails, the device nearly seized up.
Notification badges erupted across the screen in a scarlet wave.
Missed Calls: 53.
I stared at the number, my thumb hovering over the screen.
Fifty-three missed calls in less than twenty-four hours.
I scrolled through the log. Mom had called nineteen times. Dad had called eight times—which was a personal record, since Dad usually communicated exclusively through grunts and hand gestures. Derek had called twelve times, his calls punctuated by angry text messages that previewed nicely in the notification banner: “Where the hell are you?”, “Mom is freaking out because you left your junk in the garage”, and “Pick up the phone, Naomi, stop being dramatic.”
The remaining fourteen calls came from an assortment of extended family members: Aunt Linda, who lived three states away and only called when she needed gossip; Uncle Greg, who hadn't spoken to me since my college graduation; and two cousins whose last names I barely recognized.
Three years ago, seeing that wall of frantic notifications would have sent me into a spiral of immediate guilt. I would have called Mom back instantly, my voice trembling with apology, ready to unpack my bags, smooth over the ruffled feathers, and apologize for existing too loudly in a house I paid to maintain.
Standing in the sunlight outside the leasing office, feeling the crisp autumn wind tug at my hair, that reflex felt like a ghost from a past life.
I didn't feel guilty. I felt entirely, weightlessly free.
I swiped the notification tray clear, silencing the phantom vibrations, and pocketed the phone.
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Instead of returning anyone's calls, I drove to a local home goods store and bought a basic air mattress, a set of cotton sheets, a pillow, a kettle, and a coffee mug. That night, I slept on my own air mattress in the empty living room of my new apartment. There was no hum of a failing furnace, no distant sound of my parents arguing about bills in the next room, and no looming dread of what financial disaster would greet me at the kitchen table the next morning.
For the first time in three years, I slept all the way through the night without waking up once.
