Moving did not have to mean forcing them to erase that relationship.
“Yes,” I said.
“Living somewhere else doesn’t mean we stop loving her.
It means we have our own home.”
At the housing office, I carried my sleeping son on one hip and the blue folder under my arm.
My daughter walked beside me, still disappointed about the circus but curious enough to stay close.
The coordinator reviewed every document carefully.
My pay records.
The children’s birth certificates.
My identification.
The application I had submitted eleven months earlier after staying awake half the night to complete it.
There was no dramatic announcement.
No sudden rescue.
Just forms, signatures, calculations, and questions about my income.
That made the possibility feel more real.
The coordinator explained that the rent would rise or fall with my earnings.
I would still need to budget carefully.
There would be rules, yearly reviews, and a deadline for turning in the final paperwork.
Then she placed a printed estimate in front of me.
The amount was less than what I had assumed I would need for even the cheapest private apartment.
I stared at the number.
“Is this correct?”
“Based on the income records you provided, yes.”
For the first time that day, I felt fully awake.
I asked about the deposit.
A local assistance fund could cover part of it.
The rest was almost exactly the amount I had hidden in a savings account by putting away small pieces of each paycheck whenever I could.
I had not saved enough for freedom on the open market.
I had saved enough for this door.
The coordinator scheduled a unit viewing for the following afternoon.
If the apartment passed its final inspection and I accepted it, we could move in within two weeks.
My phone vibrated repeatedly on the desk.
My mother had called six times.
Then came a message.
“You dragged those kids out when they were supposed to be having fun.
Don’t expect me to fix this when it falls apart.”
I turned the phone facedown.
The coordinator glanced at me but did not ask.
That small kindness nearly broke me.
When we returned to the car, my daughter asked whether the apartment had a pool.
I laughed for the first time all day.
“Probably not.”
“A playground?”
“Maybe.”
“Can I pick my room?”
“You might have to share.”
She considered that.
“Can I put stars on the wall?”
“We have to ask about the walls.”
By the time we reached home, she was no longer talking about the circus.
My mother was waiting in the living room.
She did not ask how the appointment went.
She looked at my daughter and said, “I guess none of us are allowed to have fun today.”
My daughter glanced at me.
I watched the decision happen on her face.
Normally, she would have rolled her eyes or repeated the complaint.
