I've been driving for a delivery service for nine years, and I thought nothing could surprise me anymore. People answer the door in pajamas, argue over a package on the porch, cry happy tears over a new coffee maker. But that Thursday afternoon in November, standing on a landing off Colfax Avenue with a package for a woman, something shifted in how I think about other people's family business. Actually, it wasn't her that changed it — it was what I saw through a half-open door once her patience ran out.
I'd brought a small, light package from an online pharmacy — probably vitamins or some lotion. Alicia Novak, third floor. The buzzer was broken, so I called her cell. She picked up after five rings, her voice so worn out I double-checked I had the right number.
"Delivery for you."
"I'm coming down, just give me a minute."
Three minutes later the street door opened and there she stood. She had on a sweatshirt with a coffee stain on the sleeve, hair pulled back in a ponytail with loose strands stuck to her forehead. She wasn't looking at me — her eyes were fixed somewhere off to the side, like she was listening for someone behind her.
"Sorry to make you wait," she said, and signed the screen.
That's when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Fast, heavy, with the metallic click of heels. Ms. Novak went rigid, her fingers tightening around the stylus until her knuckles went white.
"Ms. Novak?" I asked, just wanting to hand off the package and move on. I had eleven more stops before my shift ended.
"Come in," she said suddenly, pulling the door wider. "Just for a minute. I don't want… please, come in."
I shouldn't have. Company policy: we don't go inside, we don't get involved. But I was already in, because those footsteps had reached the door, and I watched her hand freeze on the knob, shaking so hard the package nearly slipped from her arms.
The woman who came in didn't knock. She just unlocked the door with her own key and walked in like she owned the place. Older, well-dressed, in a plaid coat, purse over her shoulder. In her hand she carried a grocery bag from some produce stand, a leek poking out of the top.
"Look at this mess again," she said instead of hello, not even glancing at me. "Alicia, do you even know how to clean? There's dust on that shelf, and that blanket's crooked."
Alicia stood there with the package pressed to her chest, staring at the floor. She looked like someone who'd forgotten a long time ago where she belonged in her own home.
"Mom…" she started quietly, but the woman cut her off.
"Don't call me Mom, I'm ashamed of you. My son deserves better and you know it. Look at this place. Dust everywhere, a mess, and you just sit in it like it's nothing. You could at least wash the windows — the neighbors are already saying the Novaks' place looks filthy."
I stood by the door with nowhere to put my eyes. The package felt glued to my hands, the signature was already on the screen, and I was still standing there like my boots had grown roots. The older woman walked to the shelf and ran a finger along it. Then she opened a kitchen cabinet, picked up a mug, and set it back down with the kind of disgust you'd show touching something filthy.
"And dinner?" she asked, peering into a pot. "Nothing cooked again, I see. What exactly are you feeding my son?"
Alicia set the package down on the entryway table. Her fingers pressed at the stain on her sleeve, as if that could fix anything.
"I was at the doctor yesterday with the baby…"
"The baby, the baby," the older woman mocked. "Everybody has kids and manages fine. You just make excuses. And then you wonder why Michael comes home so late."
I'd had enough. Not my business, sure, but I couldn't just stand there and watch this woman tear her apart like I wasn't even in the room. I cleared my throat.
"I'll get going — thanks for the signature, Ms. Novak."
Both women turned toward me. The older one looked me up and down, boots to cap, like I was one more piece of evidence of Alicia's failures.
"And who's this?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
"Delivery driver," I said, reaching for the doorknob.
That's when Alicia did something I didn't expect. She put her hand over mine, on the knob, and said to the older woman:
"Get out."
Her voice didn't shake. She didn't raise it. It was a plain, dry word, like she was saying "door" or "cup."
The older woman blinked.
"What did you just say?"
"Get out of my house, and don't come back without an invitation."
The woman laughed, a nervous sound, and stepped closer, still holding the grocery bag, the leek sticking out like an accusing finger.
"Have you lost your mind? My son lives here! This is his apartment too!"
"It's my apartment," Alicia said. "We bought it together, but it's also my home. And I'm telling you — get out."
I couldn't believe this was actually happening. I stood by the door, package under my arm, boots on, tablet in hand. The older woman took two steps back, then a third. She looked like someone had pulled off a mask, and underneath was just an old, frightened woman who couldn't understand why the world had stopped dancing to her tune.
"I'm calling Michael," she hissed. "He'll show you your place."
"Call whoever you want," Alicia said, and opened the door.
The older woman left, and Alicia followed her out. I was left alone in the entryway, not knowing what to do with the package. A moment later I heard shouting on the landing:
"You ungrateful girl! He'll leave you!"
Then silence, and Alicia came back in, locked the door, and leaned against it. She looked at me like she'd just remembered I was there.
"I'm sorry," she said. "You shouldn't have had to see that."
"It's fine," I lied, because my heart was pounding like I'd just run up ten flights with a delivery.
"Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?"
I had addresses waiting on my tablet, the clock was ticking, and it was getting dark outside. But I noticed she was still pinching that stain on her sleeve between two fingers, like it was the only thing she had left to hold onto.
"Tea," I said.
I sat at her kitchen table for ten minutes, drinking tea in the kitchen of a complete stranger. I didn't speak first. I waited to see if she wanted to say anything.
"Five years," she finally said. "Five years I let her into this house because Michael kept saying, she's my mother, you have to understand. And she'd come in with her key, move my things around, tell me I cook wrong, clean wrong, raise my daughter wrong. And he just waved it off. 'Give her a break, she's my mom.'"
I watched her fingers curl around the mug. Steam rose off the tea while she kept talking, like the words were coming out on their own.
"I woke up this morning and realized I had nothing left. No patience, no strength, not even fear. Just one decision — I wasn't opening that door again."
Right then the front door slammed. A man walked into the kitchen — young, in a work jacket, keys in hand. He froze when he saw me at the table.
"Who's this?" he asked, looking at Alicia, not at me.
"Delivery driver," she said.
"So why's a delivery driver drinking tea in my kitchen?"
"Because I invited him in so he wouldn't stand on the landing."
He tossed his jacket over the back of a chair. He smelled like motor oil and cigarettes.
"My mother called me," he said, hard-edged. "Says you threw her out. Her own son's home."
"It's not her home," Alicia said, setting down her mug. "It's ours. Yours and mine. And your mother has no right to be here."
"She has every right, she's my mother!"
"Then she can go back to her own place. She's got one, over on Sheridan."
He slammed his fist on the table hard enough to rattle the spoons. My tea splashed onto the saucer.
"You don't get to decide who comes in here!"
Alicia stood up slowly, walked to a cabinet, pulled out a folder of documents, and set it on the table.
"Yes, I do. Because this is my apartment. And if you think otherwise, you can leave too, and don't come back."
He opened his mouth, then shut it. The folder sat between them — old, brown, corners worn soft. Things like that carry weight when someone lays them down without a word.
"Alicia…"
"Get out," she said. "Go be with her, since you love her so much."
And he left. Without his jacket. He only took his keys. The door slammed louder than anything that had happened before.
I sat there, not sure where the line was between being a witness and butting into someone else's life. Alicia took the folder, put it back in the cabinet, and filled a glass with cold water from the tap. She drank it down in one go and set the glass in the sink.
"Want more tea?" she asked.
I shook my head. I grabbed my tablet, checked that the package was still sitting by the door. It was.
"Ms. Novak," I said, reaching for my cap, "can I say something?"
"I don't know," she said. "But go ahead."
"Change the locks. Today. She's got a key, and he just walked out with his. Do it before either of them comes back."
She looked at me, then reached for the phone sitting by the stove.
"I know a locksmith. You should work for me," she said, managing a thin joke.
"Call him. I've got… eleven more stops."
I didn't stay to watch the locksmith change the lock. Not my business, I told myself in the elevator. But before I got in my van, I looked back up at the third-floor windows. A light was on in the kitchen. No curtains, no shadow moving inside.
A month later I had another package for that address. This time diapers, a big box, thirty-two dollars cash on delivery. I stood on the landing, looking at the new lock on the door — brass, still shiny. I rang the bell.
Alicia answered, this time in a clean blouse, hair loose on her shoulders. She smelled like she'd been baking. Behind her, in the kitchen, a little girl sat coloring at the table.
"Delivery for you," I said.
"Thank you." She signed the screen.
Before I took the tablet back, I noticed behind her, on the floor by the trash can, an old grocery bag from a produce stand. It sat there empty, except for one wilted, yellowed leek leaf poking out. I took the tablet and headed down the stairs, listening to the new lock click shut behind me.
