For three years, I paid my rent on time and watched as every check remained untouched. When I finally confronted my silent landlord, he handed me a shoebox that changed everything.
When my marriage ended, I had a four-year-old daughter, $1100, and a car that would only start if you turned the key twice.
That was the complete list of things I could still consider mine.
My name is Poppy and at that time I was 31 years old.
I spent years believing that my life was stable.
Then, in less than a month, my husband moved out, the bills became mine, and all the plans I had made for the future vanished.
Trixie was too young to understand most of it.
All she knew was that her father no longer slept at our house and that we were storing his clothes in cardboard boxes.
“Shall we go somewhere fun?” she asked, showing off a purple sweater.
I forced a smile.
“Let’s go to a new place.”
Will Dad come?
That question caught me off guard.
“Not today, darling.”
She accepted the answer with the simplicity that children sometimes display. Then she clumsily folded the sweater and put it in the box.
I turned away before he could see me cry.
I had no savings, I worked part-time at a dental clinic and I barely had enough money to keep Trixie and me afloat.
My salary was barely enough to buy food and little else.
I spent several nights looking for apartments after Trixie fell asleep.
Most places required a security deposit, the first month’s rent, proof of income, and a credit history that I didn’t have.
Some owners stopped responding to me when I mentioned my daughter.
Others wanted more than I earned in a month.
By the end of the week, I began to understand how quickly fear could take hold in a person’s body.
It lived in my stomach. It pressed against my chest every time the phone rang. It followed me into every conversation.
Then I found a handwritten advertisement taped to the inside of a small grocery store window.
“APARTMENT ABOVE GARAGE FOR RENT. PALMER STREET. $800. ASK FOR ALVAREZ.”
