The frigid morning air bit through my thin, worn-out jacket as I tightened my grip on my six-year-old daughter’s trembling hand.
“It’s okay, Laya,” I whispered, though my own voice shook. “We’re next in line.”
We were standing outside the St. Jude Women’s Shelter in downtown Chicago. I am Maya. Three weeks ago, I had a completely normal life. Then my parents, Diane and Robert, threw my daughter and me onto the streets. Their excuse? “You need to learn independence, Maya. Tough love builds character.” Tough love meant sleeping in the back of my rusted Honda Civic until it got towed, leaving us with absolutely nothing but a garbage bag of clothes.
A sleek, midnight-black Lincoln Town Car abruptly pulled up to the curb, its tires splashing freezing gray slush onto the pavement, narrowly missing us. A vehicle like that didn’t belong in this part of the city. The heavy back door swung open, and an impeccably dressed woman stepped out. The silver-tipped cane, the tailored wool coat, the sharp, calculating eyes—my breath caught in my throat.
