Our rented house wasn’t perfect—the floors creaked, and the kitchen’s peeling paint looked more like abstract art than décor—but it was home. Inside those modest walls, my three daughters, Lily, Emma, and Sophie, filled every corner with laughter, love, and small reminders of why I kept pushing forward, even when money was tight.
I struggled each month to cover our bills on my waitress’s salary. There were no savings, no fallback options. If life threw us another curveball, I wasn’t sure what I would do.
Then the phone call came. I was outside hanging laundry when the landlord, Mr. Peterson, phoned.
“Nancy, you need to clear out for a week,” he announced, almost casually.
Confused, I tightened my grip on the phone. “What do you mean?”
“My brother’s visiting, and he’ll be staying in your place,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Panic surged through me. “This is our home—we have a lease!”
“Don’t start with that lease nonsense,” he snapped. “You were late with rent last month. I could’ve evicted you then. Consider this me showing leniency. Be gone by Friday, or maybe you won’t come back.”
He hung up, leaving me stunned. I had nowhere else to go. I tried not to cry in front of the girls. Lily, the oldest, noticed my worried expression, but I forced a smile and told her it was nothing.
By Thursday night, I’d packed a few bags with the essentials. We landed in a small, noisy hostel, all four of us crammed into a tiny room with paper-thin walls. Emma complained about the noise, Sophie sobbed for her beloved stuffed bunny, Mr. Floppy, forgotten in the rush. Lily tried distracting her sisters, but nothing helped. Sophie wept herself to sleep each night, and my heart broke a little more each time.
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