"It’s just a room, Jackie," her mother had said earlier that morning, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Jacqueline’s ear. "But it’s the first room where you get to decide who walks through the door."
The keychain felt heavy in Jacqueline’s palm, a cold clump of metal that didn’t quite feel like it belonged to her yet. At twenty-four, she had spent years imagining this "mature" version of herself—someone who drank black coffee without making a face and knew exactly how to handle a leaking faucet. jacqueline mature
Instead, she stood in the center of her first solo apartment, surrounded by cardboard boxes that smelled of packing tape and old memories. "It’s just a room, Jackie," her mother had