I Was 34 Weeks Pregnant and One Phone Call From Losing My House When I Mowed My 82-Year-Old Neighbor’s Lawn in the Brutal Heat—At Dawn, a Sheriff Was Pounding on My Door, Asking Me to Open My Mailbox While He Watched
I didn’t argue. I followed her to the porch and sank onto the top step, gulping the lemonade so fast it made my teeth ache. My pulse was racing.
Mrs. Higgins eased down beside me. For a while, she didn’t say a word. She just reached over and patted my knee, twice, the way my grandmother used to.
After a minute, she asked, “How much longer for you?”
I looked down at my belly. “Six weeks. If she lets me go that long.”
“A girl,” she said, and something in her face softened. She smiled, a little wistful. “I remember those days. My Walter was such a nervous wreck. He packed the hospital bag a full month early and kept checking it every night, like the clothes might have wandered off.”
I laughed. It surprised me how good it felt.
Her hand trembled
slightly as she lifted her own glass to her lips.
“He sounds like a good man,” I said.
“Oh, he was, Ariel. He was the best.” She was quiet for a moment, gazing out at the half-mowed lawn. “It gets lonely, you know. When you lose the one person who remembers all your stories. Nobody else knows the beginning of the jokes anymore.”
Then she turned and looked straight at me.
“Who’s in your corner, Ariel?”
The question hit me harder than the heat. I stared out at the street and willed myself not to cry. I lost.
“Nobody,” I said. “Not anymore. My ex, Lee, walked out when I told him I was pregnant. And this morning, the bank called. They’re starting foreclosure.” My voice cracked. “I don’t know what happens next. I really don’t.”
Mrs. Higgins didn’t gasp or cluck her tongue. She just studied my face, very
