Most of our savings were gone.
The accounts I thought we shared were not as shared as I had believed.
And after the lawyers finished arguing over numbers I barely understood, I was left with a small amount of money, an eight-year-old daughter named Lily, two suitcases, and the terrible realization that I had spent two decades living inside a financial life I barely understood.
The duplex I found was small.
The kitchen was barely large enough for two people.
The upstairs bedroom had a window that rattled whenever the wind blew.
The living room had old wooden floors and a radiator that made strange noises at night.
But it was ours.
The first evening there, Lily sat on the floor surrounded by cardboard boxes.
“Is this really our home?”
I looked around.
“Yes.”
She frowned.
“It doesn’t look like our old house.”
“No.”
“Do you think we’ll like it?”
I swallowed.
“I think we’ll make it ours.”
She nodded as if that was enough.
Children can be incredibly brave when adults are trying not to fall apart.
For the first few months, I worked extra hours at the school district.
I learned how much electricity cost.
I learned how to stretch groceries across a week.
