And then the memories started coming.
Last Thanksgiving. My boyfriend's parents visited for the first time. His mom walked in, smiled, and immediately asked if she could "get some fresh air on the balcony." It was 40 degrees outside. I thought she was just a fresh-air person.
Two months ago. My friend Rachel suggested we go out for dinner instead of ordering in at my place. She used to love coming over. When did that stop? I scrolled back through our texts. It had been five months since she'd been inside my apartment. Five months of "let's just grab something out, it's easier."
The date in October. Jake. We'd been out three times. Great chemistry. I invited him over to watch a movie. He came. He was nice. He left after an hour, said he had an early morning. Never texted me again. I spent two weeks wondering what I did wrong.
The Uber driver who cracked his window when I got in. The coworker who moved her coffee to the other side of the table when I sat down. The maintenance guy who fixed my sink and kept his face turned toward the window the entire time.
Were all of these about the smell?
I don't know. And that's the worst part. I will never know which moments were real and which ones I ruined without knowing it.
My sister only said something because it was bad enough that her seven-year-old noticed.
That's the threshold it took. A child with no filter.
My mom's first suggestion was "maybe it's time to rehome the cat."
I looked at Oliver sleeping on my bed. I'd had him since he was eight weeks old. He's the reason I come home to something warm every night. Getting rid of him was never an option. Not for a second.