I opened the door to the flat with my own key

Dear Delyara, I spent fourteen months in temporary accommodation after becoming homeless with my teenage son. We moved through a hostel, one emergency room above a pub, and a family unit where we shared a kitchen with six households. I replaced lost identification, worked with a housing adviser, cleared old rent arrears through a repayment plan, and applied for every suitable property we were eligible for. Yesterday, we received the keys to a permanent flat. Two bedrooms. Small kitchen. Peeling paint near the window. My son complained that his room was tiny, then immediately asked where he could put his desk. I almost cried at the complaint because ordinary dissatisfaction sounded like stability. Last night, after he fell asleep, I locked the front door and placed the key on the table. For more than a year, every room came with someone else’s rules, inspections, checkout dates, or uncertainty. This key is mine to lose, copy, forget, and turn in the lock. I slept on a mattress on the floor. At three in the morning, I woke and checked the key was still there. It was.