Then one day, my phone rang.
I stepped into the pantry to answer.
It was my landlord.
“I’ve given you enough time.”
“Please,” I whispered when he told me what I already feared. “Most of my first wages went toward hospital bills and overdue payments. I can give you part of the rent now and the rest next month.”
“You said that before.”
“I have a steady job now. I just need a little time.”
My throat tightened.
“I have a daughter. Her father just died. Please, have mercy.”
The landlord sighed.
“You have one month to move out. After that, I’m changing the locks.”
The call ended.
I pressed the phone against my chest and tried to steady my breathing.
After everything I had survived, Emily and I were about to lose our home.
Then a floorboard creaked behind me.
