When Nancy’s landlord asked her and her three daughters to leave their rental home for a week, she thought life couldn’t get any worse. But an unexpected encounter with the landlord’s brother revealed a shocking betrayal.
Our house isn’t much, but it’s ours. The floors creak with every step, and the paint in the kitchen peels so much that I’ve started calling it “abstract art.”
Still, it’s home. My daughters, Lily, Emma, and Sophie, make it feel that way with their laughter and little things they do that remind me why I fight so hard.
Money has always been a worry. My waitress job barely covered rent and bills. There was no cushion, no backup plan. If something went wrong, I didn’t know what we’d do.
The phone rang the day after while I was hanging laundry to dry.
“Hello?” I answered, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder.
“It’s Peterson.”
His voice made my stomach tighten. “Oh, good morning, Mr. Peterson. Is everything okay?”
“I need you to leave the house for a week,” he said, as calmly as if he were asking me to water his plants.
“What?” I froze, still holding Sophie’s socks in my hand.
“My brother’s coming to town and needs a place to stay. I told him he could use your house.”
I thought I’d misheard. “Wait—this is my house. We have a lease!”
“Don’t start with that lease nonsense,” he cut me off sharply. “Do you remember when you were late with rent last month? I could’ve evicted you then, but I didn’t. You owe me.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “I was one day late,” I said, my voice trembling. “My daughter was sick. I explained that to you—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he interrupted. “You have until Friday to leave. If you don’t, you might not come back at all.”
“Mr. Peterson, please,” I said, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “I have nowhere to go.”
“Not my problem,” he said coldly, and the line went dead.
I sat down on the couch, staring at the phone in my hand. My heart pounded in my ears, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
“Mama, what happened?” Lily, my eldest, asked from the doorway, her eyes full of worry.
I forced a smile. “Nothing, sweetheart. Go play with your sisters.”
But it wasn’t nothing. I had no savings, no nearby family, and no way to fight back. If I defied Peterson, he’d find an excuse to evict us for good.
By Thursday evening, I’d packed what we could carry into a few bags. The girls were full of questions, but I didn’t know how to explain what was happening.
“We’re going on an adventure,” I told them, trying to sound cheerful.
“Is it far?” Sophie asked, clutching Mr. Floppy to her chest.
“Not too far,” I replied, avoiding her gaze.
The motel was worse than I’d expected. The room was tiny, barely big enough for the four of us, and the walls were so thin we could hear every cough, every creak, every loud voice from the other side.
“Mama, it’s noisy,” Emma said, covering her ears with her hands.
“I know, sweetheart,” I replied softly, stroking her hair.
Lily tried to distract her sisters by playing “Guess Who,” but it didn’t last long. Sophie’s face crumpled, and tears began to stream down her cheeks.
“Where’s Mr. Floppy?” she cried, her voice breaking.
My stomach dropped. In our rush to leave, I’d forgotten her bunny.
“He’s still at home,” I said, my throat tightening.
“I can’t sleep without him!” Sophie sobbed, clinging to my arm.
I held her close, whispering that everything would be okay. But I knew it wasn’t.
That night, as Sophie cried herself to sleep, I stared at the cracked ceiling, feeling utterly helpless.
By the fourth night, Sophie’s cries hadn’t stopped. Every sob felt like a dagger to my heart.
“I want Mr. Floppy,” she murmured, her voice hoarse.
I held her tightly, rocking her back and forth.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
“I’ll go get him,” I whispered, more to myself than to her.
I didn’t know how, but I had to try.
