I walked to the door, knocked, and held my breath.
A man I’d never seen before answered. He was tall, with kind eyes.
“Can I help you?” he asked, puzzled.
“Hi,” I stammered. “I live here. My daughter left her stuffed bunny inside, and I was hoping I could grab it.”
He blinked. “Wait, you live here?”
“Yes,” I said, the lump in my throat growing. “But Peterson told us we had to leave for a week because you were coming.”
His brows furrowed. “What? My brother told me the place was empty.”
I couldn’t stop myself. “It’s not empty. This is my home. My kids and I are staying in a hostel. My youngest can’t sleep without her bunny.”
His face darkened, and for a moment, I thought he was angry. Then he muttered, “That son of a…” before catching himself and taking a deep breath.
“I’m so sorry,” he said softly. “Come in. We’ll find the bunny.”
He stepped aside, and I walked in, the familiar smell of home hitting me. Jack—he introduced himself as Jack—helped me search Sophie’s room. After a few minutes, he pulled Mr. Floppy from under the bed.
I held the bunny close, tears in my eyes. “Thank you,” I whispered.
Jack sat on Sophie’s bed, his expression serious. “Tell me what happened,” he said.
I explained everything—the call, the threats, the hostel. His jaw tightened with every word.
He stood up and pulled out his phone. “This isn’t right,” he muttered, dialing.
The conversation was heated, though I could only hear his side. “You kicked a single mom and her kids out of their home for me? No, you’re not getting away with this.”
He hung up and turned to me. “Pack your things. You’re going back tonight.”
I blinked, confused. “What about you?”
“I’ll find somewhere else to stay,” he said firmly. “I can’t stay here after what my brother did. And he’ll cover your rent for the next six months.”
That night, Jack helped us move back in. Sophie’s face lit up when she saw Mr. Floppy.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice trembling. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I couldn’t let you stay there another night,” he said simply.
Over the next few weeks, Jack kept showing up. He fixed the leaky faucet, brought groceries, and even helped with the girls’ homework.
The girls adored him. Lily asked for his advice on her science project. Emma roped him into board games. Even Sophie warmed to him, offering Mr. Floppy a “hug” for him to join their tea party.
I started to see more of the man behind the kind gestures. He was funny, patient, and genuinely cared for my kids. Soon, our shared meals turned into something more.
Months later, as we sat on the porch after the girls had gone to bed, Jack spoke quietly.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, looking out into the yard. “I don’t want you and the girls to ever feel like this again. No one should fear losing their home overnight.”
His words hung in the air.
“I want to help you find something permanent,” he said. “Will you marry me?”
I was stunned. “Jack… I don’t know what to say. Yes!”
A month later, we moved into a cozy new house Jack had found for us. Lily had her own room. Emma painted hers pink. Sophie ran to hers, holding Mr. Floppy like a treasure.
As I watched my girls settle in, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time.
We were home. Finally.