At twenty-four, I lost more than a job — I lost stability, dignity, and the illusion that I could fix everything on my own.

Within a month, I was sleeping in my car with two small children in the back seat, telling them we were “camping” while I tried to figure out how to keep the world from collapsing completely.

Eventually, desperation overpowered pride.

I drove to my mother’s house.

When she opened the door, she looked smaller than I remembered — thinner, her shoulders slightly hunched, her eyes tired but still soft in that familiar way that once made everything feel fixable.

The words spilled out of me all at once. I told her about the layoff. About the eviction notice. About how we’d been bathing in gas station restrooms and parking under streetlights because it felt safer.

“I have nowhere else to go,” I finished, my voice cracking.

She hesitated.

That hesitation will echo in me forever.

“My boyfriend…” she said quietly, fingers tightening on the edge of the door. “He wouldn’t allow it. I’m so sorry.”

It felt like the ground disappeared.

For a second, I couldn’t even breathe.

“Then forget me,” I whispered.