gave away my last $47 to a stranger in a grocery store while an eviction notice sat waiting for me at home. Two days later, just as I was packing up my son’s life into boxes, a letter arrived—one that made me realize that what happened in aisle seven was never as simple as it seemed.
I’m 37. A single mom. My son is six.
Three days ago, I received an eviction notice.
The paper felt rough beneath my fingers as I signed for it. I remember that vividly because I kept staring at my own name, as if it didn’t belong to me. As if maybe—just maybe—this was all a mistake. Some clerical error. Something that could still be fixed.
But it wasn’t.
