Nancy believed that things could not get much worse when her landlord ordered her and her three girls to leave their rented house for a week. However, an unexpected encounter with the landlord’s brother exposed a startling betrayal.
Although it is not much, our residence is ours. Every step makes the floors groan, and the kitchen’s paint is flaking so severely that I have begun to refer to it as “abstract art.”
It is home, though. That is how my kids Lily, Emma, and Sophie make it seem, with their giggles and small gestures that remind me why I work so hard.
I thought about money all the time. Our rent and expenses were barely met by my work as a waiter. There was no safety net or contingency plan. I was not sure what we would do if something went wrong.
The following day, as I was hanging out washing to dry, the phone rang.
“Hello?” Tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear, I responded.
“It is Peterson, Nancy.”
I felt my gut clench at his voice. Mr. Peterson, hello. Is everything in order?
As casually as if I were asking me to tend his plants, he added, “I need you out of the house for a week.”
“What?” I froze, a pair of Sophie’s socks still in my hands.
“My brother’s coming to town, and he needs a place to stay. I told him he could use your house.”
I thought I must’ve misheard him. “Wait—this is my home. We have a lease!”
“Don’t start with that lease nonsense,” he snapped. “Remember when you were late on rent last month? I could’ve kicked you out then, but I didn’t. You owe me.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “I was late by one day,” I said, my voice shaking. “My daughter was sick. I explained that to you—”
“Doesn’t matter,” he interrupted. “You’ve got till Friday to get out. Be gone, or maybe you won’t come back at all.”
“Mr. Peterson, please,” I said, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“Not my problem,” he said coldly, and then the line went dead.
I sat 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’s wrong?” Lily, my oldest, asked from the doorway, her eyes filled with concern.
I forced a smile. “Nothing, sweetheart. Go play with your sisters.”
It was not nothing, though. I had no family close by, no savings, and no means of defense. Peterson would find a reason to permanently kick us out if I resisted him.
I had packed the little things we could bring into a couple of suitcases by Thursday evening. The girls were asking a lot of questions, but I was at a loss for words.
I tried to sound upbeat as I told them, “We are going on an adventure.”
“Is it far?” Sophie, holding Mr. Floppy close to her bosom, inquired.
I avoided looking into her eyes and responded, “Not too far.”
The accommodation was not as good as I had anticipated. The room was so small that it could hardly accommodate the four of us, and the walls were so thin that we could hear every squeak, cough, every loud voice from the other side.
“Mama, it’s noisy,” Emma said, pressing her hands over her ears.
“I know, sweetie,” I said softly, stroking her hair.
Lily tried to distract her sisters by playing I Spy, but it didn’t work for long. Sophie’s little face crumpled, and tears started streaming down her cheeks.
“Where’s Mr. Floppy?” she cried, her voice breaking.
My stomach sank. In the 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, clutching my arm.
I wrapped her in my arms and held her close, whispering that it would be okay. But I knew it wasn’t okay.
That night, as Sophie cried herself to sleep, I stared at the cracked ceiling, feeling completely helpless.
By the fourth night, Sophie’s crying hadn’t stopped. Every sob felt like a knife to my heart.
“Please, Mama,” she whispered, her voice raw. “I want Mr. Floppy.”
I held her tightly, rocking her back and forth.
It was more than I could handle.
I muttered, more to myself than to her, “I will get him.”
I had to try even though I had no idea how.
My heart was racing as I parked down the street and gazed at the house. What if I was denied entry? Could Mr. Peterson have been present? But I could not get Sophie’s tear-streaked visage out of my head.
I inhaled deeply and approached the door while Sophie’s cries of “please” reverberated in my ears. As I pressed my knuckles to the wood, I held my breath.
The door opened, and a man I’d never seen before stood there. He was tall, with a kind face and sharp green eyes.
“Can I help you?” he asked, looking puzzled.
“Hi,” I stammered. “I—I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m the tenant here. My daughter left her stuffed bunny inside, and I was hoping I could grab it.”
He blinked at me. “Wait. You live here?”
I nodded, but couldn’t stop a lump forming in my throat. ” We had to go for a week, Mr. Peterson told us that you were staying here”
His brows furrowed. “What? “According to my brother the place was empty and ready for me to move in for a bit” he said.
The words spilled out because I couldn’t stop them. “It’s not empty. This is my home. We’re all crammed into a fourth floor hostel, across town. She doesn’t have her bunny, my youngest can’t sleep.”
I thought he was angry at me, but his face darkened. He muttered, “That son of a…” instead. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he stopped himself.
Now his voice was softer, and he said: ‘I’m so sorry.’ “I had no idea. “We’ll find the bunny,” it said, come in.”
I didn’t move and he stepped aside. I could smell home and my eyes were aching, and refusing to let them fall, I idly wondered what was happening. He helped me scour Sophie’s room which he said looked untouched, introduced himself as Jack.
“Here he is,” Jack said, pulling Mr. Floppy from under the bed.
I held the bunny close, imagining Sophie’s joy. “Thank you,” I said, my voice trembling.
“Tell me everything,” Jack said, sitting on the edge of Sophie’s bed. “What exactly did my brother say to you?”
I hesitated but told him everything: the call, the threats, the hostel. He listened quietly, his jaw tightening with every word.
When I finished, he stood and pulled out his phone. “This isn’t right,” he said.
“Wait—what are you doing?”
“Fixing this,” he said, dialing.
The conversation that followed was heated, though I could only hear his side.
“You forced a single mother and her children to leave their house? For me? Jack’s tone was piercing. “No, this is not something you can get away with. Now fix it, or I will do it.
After hanging up, he turned to face me. Bring your belongings to the hostel. You will return this evening.
Uncertain if I had heard him correctly, I blinked. “How about you?”
He firmly stated, “I will find somewhere else to stay.” Because of what my brother did, I can not stay here. Additionally, he will pay your rent for the upcoming six months.
Jack helped us move back in that evening. Sophie was ecstatic to see Mr. Floppy, holding the rabbit tightly in her tiny arms like a treasure.
“Thank you,” I told Jack as we unpacked. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I couldn’t let you stay there another night,” he said simply.
Over the next few weeks, Jack kept showing up. He fixed the leaky faucet in the kitchen. One night, he brought over groceries.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I said, feeling overwhelmed.
“It’s nothing,” he said with a shrug. “I like helping.”
The girls adored him. He gave Lily advice on her science project. He was roped into board games by Emma. Mr. Floppy was even getting on Sophie’s good side and so took ‘hug’ for Jack to join their tea party.
I began to recognize more of how man underneath the kind gestures. He was funny, patient, and cared about my kids. Our dinners together developed to become a romance.
It was several months later, sitting on the porch after the girls had gone to bed, one evening, when Jack spoke in a quiet voice.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, looking out into the yard.
“About what?”
“I don’t want you and the girls to ever feel like this again. No one should be scared of losing their home overnight.”
His words hung in the air.
“I want to help you find something permanent,” he continued. “Will you marry me?”
I was stunned. “Jack… I don’t know what to say. Yes!”
Jack got us a lovely little house, and we moved in a month later. Lily was in a separate room. Emma applied a pink paint job to hers. Holding Mr. Floppy like a shield, Sophie sprinted to hers.
As I tucked Sophie in that night, she whispered, “Mama, I love our new home.”
“So do I, baby,” I said, kissing her forehead.
Jack stayed for dinner that night, helping me set the table. As the girls chattered, I looked at him and knew: he wasn’t just our hero. He was family.