The apartment was a converted garage behind an old blue house on Palmer Street.
It had one bedroom and a kitchen the size of a closet.
A window over the sink looked out at somebody else’s tomato plants.
The paint on the walls was faded, and the floor tilted slightly near the bathroom.
The refrigerator made a low buzzing sound.
There was no dishwasher, no laundry room, and no space for a dining table.
To me, it looked like safety.
Trixie ran from one end of the bedroom to the other.
“Can I put stars on the ceiling?”
“We’ll see.”
“That means no.”
“It means we’ll see.”
She gave me a serious look, then opened the closet.
“It’s small.”
“So are your clothes.”
That made her laugh.
The landlord, Mr. Alvarez, met me in the driveway.
He was somewhere in his 70s, wore the same gray work shirt every single day, and had a face that did not give away a single thing he was thinking.
His hair was white and cut close to his head.
His hands looked rough, and there was a thin scar near his left thumb.
He looked at me, then at Trixie, then at my car.
The car had stalled twice on the way there.
He asked me three questions: “Did I smoke?” “Did I have a dog?” “Was the little girl mine?”
“No, no, and yes,” I replied.
Mr. Alvarez looked at Trixie again.
She stepped closer to me and held my hand.
Then he said, “$800 a month. First of the month. No lease, because I don’t like paperwork.”
I nearly cried right there in the driveway.
Eight hundred dollars was less than half of what anything else in that city cost.
“Is there a deposit?” I asked.
“No.”
“Application fee?”
“No.”
“Do you need proof of income?”
He stared at me.
“Can you pay $800?”
“Yes.”
“Then move in Saturday.”
That was it.
No background check. No references. No long conversation about my failed marriage or my shaky finances.
I thanked him so many times that his expression finally changed.
“Stop thanking me,” he said. “Just pay on time.”
“I will.”
And I did.
We moved in with six boxes, two suitcases, and a mattress my sister gave us.
Trixie slept in the bedroom.
I slept on a narrow sofa in the living room.
The first night, rain tapped against the roof.
Trixie came out holding her blanket.
“I can’t sleep.”
“Too noisy?”
She nodded.
I lifted the blanket.
“Come here.”
She climbed beside me and rested her head against my shoulder.
“Do you like our new house?” she asked.
I looked around the tiny room.
“I think I will.”
“I like the tomatoes.”
“They’re not ours.”
“We can look at them.”
That became our life.
I worked mornings at the dental office and took evening shifts at a bakery three nights a week.
Trixie stayed with my sister when I worked late.
Money was always tight, but I learned how to stretch it.
I bought groceries with coupons.
I patched my shoes instead of replacing them.
I learned which bills could wait three days and which ones could not.
