That morning, the call from the bank confirmed what I already knew.
Foreclosure.
I remember standing still after the call ended, one hand on my stomach, trying to explain to a child I hadn’t met yet why the world suddenly felt unstable.
“I’m trying,” I whispered. “I really am.”
She kicked back, strong and steady, like she didn’t believe in giving up either.
I needed air, so I stepped outside into the heat that made everything feel heavier.
That’s when I saw her.
Mrs. Higgins.
Eighty-two years old, standing in her yard, struggling with a broken lawnmower and grass that had clearly outgrown her strength. She looked like she had been fighting the yard for hours, refusing to let it win.
She smiled when she saw me. The kind of smile people use when they don’t want to admit they’re struggling.
Something in me stopped.
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