By Friday, she had become part of our routine—homework, dinner, goodbye. She washed dishes with Sam, humming quietly. One evening, she fell asleep at the counter, then woke with a start and apologized three times.
Dan caught my arm. “Should we call someone? She needs… help, right?”
“And say what?” I whispered. “That her dad’s struggling and she’s tired? I don’t even know where to start, Dan. Let’s just do what we can.”
He sighed. “She looks worn out.”
I nodded. “I’ll talk to her. Gently this time.”
Over the weekend, I tried to learn more.
Sam shrugged. “She doesn’t talk about home. Just says her dad works a lot. And sometimes the power gets cut. She pretends it’s fine, but she’s always hungry… and tired.”
That Monday, Lizie looked even paler. As she pulled out her homework, her backpack slipped off the chair and burst open. Papers scattered across the floor—crumpled bills, an envelope of coins, and a shutoff notice stamped “FINAL WARNING” in red.
A worn notebook fell open, pages filled with lists.
I knelt to help. “EVICTION” stared up at me in bold letters. Underneath, in neat handwriting: “What we take first if we get evicted.”
“Lizie…” My voice caught. “What is this?”
She froze, lips pressed tight, fingers twisting her hoodie.
Sam gasped. “Lizie, you didn’t say it was this bad!”
Dan walked in. “What’s going on?” He saw the papers.
I held up the envelope. “Lizie, sweetheart… are you and your dad losing your home?”
