At seven on a cold Tuesday morning, I stood in my apartment doorway holding my four-year-old daughter on my hip while my seven-year-old son pressed himself against my legs, trembling so hard I could feel it through my pajama pants. The hallway light flickered, and the stairwell echoed with the heavy sound of boots climbing upward, each step louder than the last. The building smelled like dust and old paint, and the cold air slipped in through the cracked doorframe, stinging my face and hands. Nearly thirty bikers in leather vests filled the narrow space as they reached our floor, their presence overwhelming, their silhouettes blocking what little light there was. At the front stood my landlord, Rick, his jaw tight and his eyes flat. He didn’t waste time or soften his words. The rent was overdue, he said. My time was up. These men were here to move our things out and place them on the curb. I felt my chest tighten as if the air had been pulled from my lungs. I tried to explain that I had just started a new job, that my first paycheck was coming in a week, that I only needed a little more time. Rick barely looked at me as I spoke. My daughter began to cry softly into my shoulder, her small hands gripping my sweater, while my son clutched my legs as though letting go would mean losing the last solid thing in his world. In that moment, fear wrapped itself around me completely, and I could not imagine how we would survive what was about to happen. Continue reading…
