I bought 33 porcelain rabbits at a garage sale for my daughter’s eighth birthday — then she accidentally broke one, and what fell out made me go pale.
Three months before my daughter Piper turned eight, my husband left me for a woman from his office and made sure I walked away with almost nothing.
Gavin didn’t simply pack a suitcase and leave.
Within days, most of the money in our joint account was gone. Then he changed the locks on the house and told me, through his attorney, that I could schedule a time to collect whatever he considered my “personal belongings.”
Apparently, the dining table I’d paid for wasn’t personal.
Neither was my grandmother’s dresser.
Half my clothes were still hanging in the closet when Piper and I moved into a motel beside the highway.
Our room had one bed, one chair, a microwave that only worked if I pressed the door shut with my hip, and a bathroom sink where I washed Piper’s school clothes at night.
One evening, she sat on the bed watching me scrub a stain from her uniform.
“Mom, are we poor?”
I kept my eyes on the shirt.
“We’re just being very careful with money right now.”
She thought about that for a moment.
“Can we still buy cereal?”
That almost broke me.
There had already been nights when I told Piper I wasn’t hungry because one takeout meal stretched further if only she ate it.
“Yes, sweetheart. We can still buy cereal.”
She nodded as if that settled everything.
Piper rarely complained, which somehow made the situation hurt more.
Her eighth birthday was coming, and I desperately wanted her to have one thing that didn’t feel temporary.
Not a motel breakfast.
