I was standing in my doorway at 7 a.m. on a Tuesday, clutching my four-year-old daughter while my seven-year-old son hid behind my legs, when thirty massive bikers in leather vests started climbing the apartment stairs.
“Time’s up, Rebecca,” my landlord Rick barked from behind them. “These gentlemen are here to move your stuff to the curb. Ten minutes. That’s it.”
Sofia whimpered in my arms. Michael’s tiny hands clutched my pajama pants so tightly I felt his fear through the fabric. I’d expected this day for weeks, dreaded it, prayed for a miracle—and now it was here.
“Please,” I begged. “Just one more week. My first paycheck comes Friday. I can pay half.”
Rick didn’t flinch. “You said that last month. And the month before. Thirty guys, fifty bucks each. Today’s the day.”
The lead biker stepped forward. Towering, tattooed, gray beard down to his chest, his vest read “Marcus – President.”
“Ma’am, step aside. We’ve got a job to do,” he said calmly.
Then Michael ran forward and wrapped his arms around Marcus’s leg. “Please don’t take our home! Please! My daddy’s gone, and my mommy tries so hard!”
Continue reading on next page…