The intake worker was kind. She asked me questions I was too numb to really process. Did I have family? Did I have income? Did I have any plans? And I answered as best I could. She showed me to a room I’d share with one other woman, a twin bed with sheets that smelled like industrial detergent, a window that looked out onto a parking lot. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. This was my life now.
The shelter had rules. Curfew at 10:00, chores on a rotating schedule, group dinners in the common room, weekly meetings with a caseworker who would help you develop a transition plan. My case worker was a woman named Deborah, mid-50s, with reading glasses on a chain around her neck and the kind of patient manner that suggested she’d heard every story there was to hear. She didn’t look shocked when I told her what had happened. She just nodded and wrote things down in her file.
Do you have any income right now? No, I was working at a veterinary clinic, but I had to resign when I moved here. It was too far to commute. Are you looking for work? Yes, I have interviews scheduled. I didn’t, but I would. Good. In the meantime, you should apply for assistance. Food stamps, emergency aid. I can help you with the paperwork. I nodded. I’d never applied for government assistance in my life. I’d never imagined I would need to. There’s no shame in it, Deborah said, like she could read my mind. This is what these programs are for, people who need help getting back on their feet. I tried to smile, right? She scheduled me an appointment at the county assistance office for the following Tuesday.
The night before the appointment, I couldn’t sleep. My roommate was a woman named Carla, late 20s, who’d left her boyfriend after he broke her arm. She snored softly on the other side of the room, and I lay there in the dark, thinking about everything that had led me to this place.
I thought about Nathan, about the way he’d looked at me that night in Charlotte 9 years ago, like I was something precious. I wondered if any of it had been real, if he’d ever loved me, or if I’d just been a convenient step on his way to something better. I thought about Karine, about all the years I’d spent trying to earn her affection, her approval, her attention. She’d always been my mother’s favorite. I thought if I could just make Karine love me, then maybe my mother would see me differently, too.
