My mother left me hungry and lonely at 16. When my…

of money.

She would come back and act like nothing happened. And I would scream at her and then we would order pizza. That was the cycle.

Cycles were comforting because they were predictable. But the cycle broke on Friday afternoon. I was sitting on the couch eating peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon when a heavy fist pounded on the front door.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I thought for one wild hopeful second that she had lost her keys. I opened the door.

It was not my mother. It was the landlord, a man with a thick neck and eyes that looked like wet stones. He looked over my shoulder, scanning the empty living room.

“Where is she?” he demanded. “She is at work,” I lied. The lie tasted like ash.

“She will be back later.”

“Don’t give me that,” he spat. “I haven’t seen her car in four days. And the rent is two months late.”

Two months.