Six months ago, I wasn’t homeless. I was a nursing assistant with a steady job and a normal life. Then everything collapsed.
After my rent increased and my credit problems caught up with me, my parents invited my daughter Laya and me to stay with them “temporarily.” I believed them. But after thirty days, they locked us out—leaving my six-year-old asleep on the hallway floor. That night we slept in my car. Soon after, we ended up in a family shelter.
One freezing morning outside St. Bridgid’s Shelter, while I was getting Laya ready for school, a black sedan pulled up. Out stepped my grandmother, Evelyn Hart—elegant, powerful, and completely unaware of what had happened to us.
She asked why we weren’t living in the house on Hawthorne Street.
I had no idea what she meant.
Evelyn revealed she had bought a home for me and trusted my parents to give me the keys. Instead, they secretly rented it out and collected the money—while my daughter and I lived in a shelter.
Furious, Evelyn uncovered everything. My parents had lied, staged photos to fool her, and pocketed eighteen thousand dollars meant to secure our future. That evening, at a family banquet they were hosting, she publicly exposed them, announced legal action, and made sure everyone knew the truth.
Within weeks, the tenants were removed, the house was returned to me, and my parents were ordered to repay every cent.
Today, Laya and I live at 140 Hawthorne Street. She has her own room, a yard to play in, and an address she’s proud to say out loud. I’m finishing my RN degree, and for the first time in years, we have stability.
I learned something important: the people who are supposed to protect you sometimes fail. And sometimes the one person you were told not to bother is the one who saves you.
Now, we have a home—built on truth.
THE END