When Nancy’s landlord told her and her three daughters to vacate their rental home for a week, she thought things couldn’t get any worse. But a chance meeting with the landlord’s brother revealed a shocking betrayal.
Our house isn’t much, but it’s home. The floors creak with every step, and the peeling paint in the kitchen has earned it the nickname “abstract art.”
Still, it’s ours. My daughters—Lily, Emma, and Sophie—bring it to life with their laughter and the little things they do that remind me why I keep pushing.
Money was always a worry. As a waitress, my job barely covered rent and bills, leaving no room for savings or backup plans. If anything went wrong, I didn’t know what we’d do.
The phone rang one day as I was hanging laundry.
“Hello?” I answered, balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder.
“Nancy, it’s Peterson.”
His voice made my stomach tighten. “Oh, hi, Mr. Peterson. Is everything okay?”
“I need you out for a week,” he said casually. “My brother’s coming into town, and he needs somewhere to stay.”
I froze. “What? This is my home. We have a lease!”
“Don’t get caught up in that lease nonsense,” he snapped. “Remember last month when you were late on rent? I could’ve kicked you out then. You owe me.”
I clenched the phone tighter. “I was one day late, and I explained why. My daughter was sick!”
“Doesn’t matter,” he interrupted. “You’ve got till Friday to get out. If not, maybe you won’t come back.”
“Please, Mr. Peterson, I have nowhere else to go.”
“Not my problem,” he said coldly, and the line went dead.
I sat down, staring at the phone. My heart raced, and I could barely breathe.
“Mama, what’s wrong?” Lily asked, her concerned face at the door.
I forced a smile. “Nothing, sweetheart. Go play with your sisters.”
But it wasn’t nothing. With no savings, no family nearby, and no way to fight back, I knew if I stood up to Peterson, he’d find a way to evict us for good.
By Thursday, I had packed what little we could carry. The girls had questions, but I couldn’t explain.
“We’re going on an adventure,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.
“Is it far?” Sophie asked, clutching her stuffed bunny, Mr. Floppy.
“Not too far,” I said, avoiding her eyes.
The hostel was even worse than I imagined. The room was tiny, barely big enough for the four of us, and the thin walls amplified every sound.
“Mama, it’s noisy,” Emma said, pressing her hands to her ears.
“I know, sweetie,” I soothed, stroking her hair.
Lily tried to distract her sisters with games, but Sophie started crying.
“Where’s Mr. Floppy?” she sobbed.
I hadn’t realized in the rush to leave that I’d forgotten her bunny.
“He’s still at home,” I said, my throat tight.
“I can’t sleep without him!” Sophie cried.
I wrapped her in my arms, whispering that it would be okay. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t.
That night, as Sophie cried herself to sleep, I stared at the cracked ceiling, feeling helpless.
By the fourth night, Sophie’s sobs hadn’t stopped.
“Please, Mama,” she whispered, voice raw. “I want Mr. Floppy.”
I couldn’t take it anymore.
“I’ll get him,” I promised, more to myself than her.
I didn’t know how, but I had to try.
I parked down the street from our house, heart racing. What if they wouldn’t let me in? What if Peterson was there? But Sophie’s tear-streaked face wouldn’t leave my mind.
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