Let me tell you what eleven years in the same apartment building teaches you.

Eleven years is enough time to learn which stair creaks in cold weather, which neighbors argue every Sunday morning, who gets groceries delivered on Thursdays, and which resident practices an instrument badly enough that you can track their complete lack of improvement.

It is long enough to become part of the building itself.

The person people trust with spare keys.

The neighbor who signs for packages.

The one who knows where maintenance forms are kept because she has actually read them.

That person was me.

Margaret Collier.

Apartment 3B.

Eleven years.

In all that time, I had never caused a complaint, started a feud, or given management any reason to remember my name except when rent was due.

I had watched neighbors’ pets.

Accepted packages.

Helped new tenants find the recycling bins.

I was reasonable.

Dependable.