Eleven months before any of this happened, my husband Daniel died after a long battle with cancer.
By the time we lost him, most of our savings were gone too.
That’s what a long illness can do.
It drains the bank account, the house, your energy, everything.
And then one day you’re standing in a quiet kitchen with two three-year-old daughters looking up at you, waiting for breakfast, while the person who was supposed to help you raise them is gone.
Emma and Lucy were the reason I kept moving.
Every morning, I dropped them off at a daycare I could barely afford, kissed their little faces, and took two buses across town to the hotel where I worked as a housekeeper.
It wasn’t glamorous.
Most guests barely noticed the woman pushing towels and cleaning supplies through the hallway.
But the schedule was reliable.
The insurance was decent.
And my
