The first night, all five kids somehow squeezed onto the same mattress.
Nobody wanted to sleep alone.
The next morning, I called the university.
I withdrew from my final semester.
My advisor asked whether I was sure.
I wasn’t.
But life had stopped offering certainty.
A week later, I sold my car.
From then on, the Bellmere city bus became our family transportation.
The children never complained.
That was one of the hardest things to watch.
They had learned far too young not to expect comfort.
Years started blending together.
Breakfast before sunrise.
Five lunches packed before school.
Double shifts at a diner.
The younger kids sometimes waited in the break room after classes while Noah helped them finish homework until my shift ended.
There was always another bill.
Always another pair of shoes.
Always something breaking.
I became very good at pretending.
If there were four chicken breasts for six people, I would tell them I had eaten at work.
If the electricity bill arrived the same week someone needed new sneakers, I would suddenly claim I felt like walking instead of paying for the bus.
When rent increased, I sold Mara’s upright piano.
It was the one piece of her home I had promised myself I would keep.
Noah watched the movers take it away.
He said nothing.
He always noticed more than I realized.
MACY’S BOOTS
One winter morning, Macy ran into the kitchen.
