Winter hit hard that morning—sharp, merciless, the kind of cold that doesn’t just chill the air but settles deep into your chest. At seven a.m., I stood barefoot in my apartment doorway, clutching my four-year-old daughter as she buried her face into my sweatshirt. My seven-year-old son clung to my legs, trembling so badly I could feel it through the thin cotton of my pajamas.
Then came the footsteps.
Heavy boots. Slow. Deliberate. Each step echoed through the stairwell like a warning. By the time they reached my floor, nearly thirty men filled the hallway. Leather vests. Solid frames. Faces carved by years of hard living. At the front stood my landlord, Rick—arms crossed, expression flat, already done with the situation.
No small talk. No sympathy.
Rent unpaid. Grace period expired. Eviction effective immediately.
I tried to explain. I told him about the new job, the paycheck coming in days, not weeks. I begged for time I didn’t have. He stared at me like I was repeating a speech he’d heard too many times before.
My daughter started crying—soft at first, then desperate. My son tightened his grip like letting go meant losing everything.
I felt exposed. Small. Watched. The shame burned hotter than the cold air creeping in from the stairwell. This was the moment everything finally fell apart.
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