For three years, I paid rent on time and watched every check remain 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 only started if you turned the key twice.
That was the full list of things I could still call mine.
My name is Poppy, and at the time, I was 31 years old.
I had spent years believing my life was stable.
Then, in less than a month, my husband moved out, the bills became mine, and every plan I had made for the future disappeared.
Trixie was too young to understand most of it.
She only knew that her father no longer slept in our house and that we were packing her clothes into cardboard boxes.
“Are we going somewhere fun?” she asked as she held up a purple sweater.
I forced a smile.
“We’re going somewhere new.”
“Will Daddy come?”
That question caught me off guard.
“Not today, sweetheart.”
She accepted that answer in the simple way children sometimes do. Then she folded the sweater badly and placed it inside the box.
I turned away before she could see me cry.
I had no savings, a part-time job at a dental office, and barely enough money to keep Trixie and me afloat.
My salary covered groceries and little else.
I spent several nights searching for apartments after Trixie went to sleep.
Most places required a security deposit, the first month’s rent, proof of income, and a credit score I did not have.
Some landlords stopped replying when I mentioned my daughter.
Others wanted more than I earned in a month.
By the end of the week, I had begun to understand how quickly fear could settle into a person’s body.
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