The Apartment With The Turtle

Six months after I moved back to Alabama, my dad got transferred to Connecticut. He left. I stayed.

The apartment felt different without him. Smaller somehow. Louder in the quiet. The refrigerator hummed like it had something to say. The air conditioner kicked on in uneven intervals. Every sound felt magnified.

I had wanted independence. Now I had it.

Living alone at eighteen sounds bold when you say it fast. When you slow it down, it’s mostly grocery lists, locked doors, and learning which creaks are normal at night.

My turtle sat on the kitchen counter in his tank, unbothered. My cat adjusted quickly, as cats do. Animals don’t question change. They just settle.

I tried to do the same.

I worked. I paid bills. I learned how expensive everything is when you’re the only one signing the check. I learned how heavy silence can be when no one else is home to interrupt it.

There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely. I was both.

I thought I wanted space. What I really wanted was steadiness. A place that didn’t feel temporary. A life that didn’t rearrange itself every time I unpacked.

At night, I would sit on the couch with the lamp on and imagine what everyone else was doing. Families eating dinner. Sisters arguing over the TV. Someone calling someone else to say they were on their way home.

No one was on their way home to me.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no breakdown. Just a quiet understanding.

Independence is powerful. But it isn’t the same as belonging.

Eventually, I missed my parents more than I missed my pride. So I packed again. Not because I failed, but because sometimes strength isn’t staying. Sometimes it’s admitting you still need connection.

The turtle went back in his container. The cat back in her carrier.

And I drove again.