At seventy-two, Minerva never imagined she would end up sleeping in a shelter. She had lived a steady, quiet life—paying bills on time, keeping a clean home, and cherishing the memories she shared with her late husband, John. After his passing, the silence of her house became unbearable. Every creak, every whistle of the kettle, reminded her of him.
Eventually, Minerva sold the home she had shared with John, moving into a small city apartment near the hospital for practicality. She transferred the house to her grandson, Tyler, for a symbolic dollar. Her daughter, Molly, had passed years earlier, leaving Tyler as her last living family.
Tyler reminded her of Molly in small, piercing ways—the crooked smile, the furrowed brow, the kindness beneath the surface. When he offered to handle her rent payments, Minerva agreed, trusting him completely. She carefully placed the money in envelopes each month, reassured by his promise that everything was handled.
That trust shattered two weeks ago. Her landlord, Michael, appeared at her door with shocking news: she hadn’t paid rent in three months. Eviction papers were already filed, and new tenants were moving in by the weekend. Minerva insisted Tyler had been paying, but Michael shook his head, apologetic but firm.
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