At 35, I married my wealthy 72-year-old boss so my daughter and I wouldn’t end up homeless. After he died, his lawyer looked at me and said, “He prepared this trap specifically for you… and he knew you would fall into it.”

A stuffed animal could be left behind.

A family could say they loved you and then decide they couldn’t keep you.

At one shelter, when I was five, another child pointed at me and laughed because I was carrying everything I owned in a plastic grocery bag.

One of the adults looked at me and said,

“You’re like a stray kitten.”

Everyone laughed.

I didn’t.

I remembered those words for years.

Stray.

As if I had chosen to be homeless.

As if I had chosen not to belong anywhere.

Then I met Tom.

He was a few years older than me and had the kind of smile that made people feel safe.

Even when he was having a terrible day, he found something to laugh about.

We became friends first.

Then we became inseparable.

When we eventually left the foster system, we stayed in contact.

Neither of us had much.

But we had each other.

Our first date was at a cheap diner where Tom spent nearly twenty minutes pretending to understand a menu he couldn’t afford.

I laughed so hard that I nearly cried.

“You know you don’t have to order the expensive thing,” I told him.

“I know.”