Our house isn’t much, but it’s ours. The floors creak with every step, and the paint in the kitchen is peeling so badly I’ve started calling it “abstract art.”

Still, it’s home. My daughters, Lily, Emma, and Sophie, make it feel that way, with their laughter and the little things they do that remind me why I push so hard.

Money was always on my mind. My job as a waitress barely covered our rent and bills. There was no cushion, no backup plan. If something went wrong, I didn’t know what we’d do.

The phone rang the next day while I was hanging out laundry to dry. “Hello?” I answered, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Nancy, it’s Peterson.” His voice made my stomach tighten. “Oh, hi, Mr. Peterson. Is everything okay?” “I need you out of the house for a week,” he said, as casually as if he were asking me to water his plants. “What?” I froze, a pair of Sophie’s socks still in my hands. “My brother’s coming to town, and he needs a place to stay. I told him he could use your house.” I thought I must’ve misheard him. “Wait—this is my home. We have a lease!” “Don’t start with that lease nonsense,” he snapped. “Remember when you were late on rent last month? I could’ve kicked you out then, but I didn’t. You owe me.”

I gripped the phone tighter. “I was late by one day,” I said, my voice shaking. “My daughter was sick. I explained that to you” “Doesn’t matter,” he interrupted. “You’ve got till Friday to get out. Be gone, or maybe you won’t come back at all.” “Mr. Peterson, please,” I said, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.” “Not my problem,” he said coldly, and then the line went dead. I sat on the couch, staring at the phone in my hand. My heart pounded in my ears, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. “Mama, what’s wrong?” Lily, my oldest, asked from the doorway, her eyes filled with concern. I forced a smile. “Nothing, sweetheart. Go play with your sisters.”