Then finally, the War was over. Those who had gone to fight, returned. Life was so different , with so many parties and weddings and of course, funerals.
There were so many people suddenly every where. Housing was needed for the thousands of Veterans and their families.
Developers began building everywhere, and in a few years, there was one who was gobbling up the area, beginning three blocks south of my home, knocking down, excavating, tossing up six storied brick compartments, dozens of them, moving ever closer to my door.
Everyone was selling their old houses. A neighbourhood of quiet tree lined streets was now a brick housing project.
It was 1949, and I was that 50 year old single woman. I was that woman I had pretended to be since my husband died of the Spanish Flu in 1920.
I had been on my own since then, living by my dressmaking and renting out the shop downstairs. Now, the shop was empty. The streets were empty.
I didn’t want to sell, but I had no choice and was made a very good offer.