Seven Days

As we enter some of the darker parts of my mother and mine’s story, the very last thing I want is pity. I’m writing this because I think it’s an important story to tell. I’m writing this to face some of the darker parts of myself that I’ve tried to push down and avoid. I’m writing this for my mother and me. There’s still so much healing for us to do and part of that healing is facing the ugliest parts of our story.

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My mother tried her best to keep it together, she really did. As her illness took over her body it became harder and harder for her to go to work. Years before she became ill, she had left the education field and was working as a service coordinator for infants and toddlers with developmental delays. 

Her work could sometimes be done remotely, which worked out well for a while. She could get away with being out of the office for a day or two. However, as her condition worsened, she began missing work more and more. Her paychecks got smaller and smaller and the bills kept coming. She had worked out some sort of payment plan with our landlord; however, the landlord never gave my mother receipts so she was never aware of what late fees were being applied or how behind we actually were. 

I was a 19-year-old college kid– still dependant on my mother and unaware of how fucked up the system of capitalism actually is. I mean, we had always struggled— but I never understood just how horribly things could go wrong. I don’t think either of us did. We always made due somehow. 

I soon had to take on more financial responsibility because my small contributions were no longer enough to keep us afloat. I was making nine dollars an hour with no real concept of saving money or budgeting. And as horrible as it sounds— as selfish as I know it was— I was so angry at her for asking me for help. I watched my friends with the same low paying jobs be able to drink and buy fake IDs and live. And to me, it wasn’t fair. I watched my friends' parents buy them groceries and help them get their own apartments and cars and I was so angry. 

I still don’t think it’s fair. But now I understand it wasn’t my mother who robbed me of those experiences; it was poverty. It was her illness. It was her incompetent doctors. It was the system. For years I was angry at my mother because I didn’t understand how the world worked. I didn’t empathize with how difficult it had to be for her to have to beg her 19-year-old to help with the bills. I don’t think I’ve fully moved past the guilt of that misunderstanding. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for not working hard enough. 

We were crushed under the weight of capitalism and my mother’s illness and finally, our landlord had enough. She served us with eviction papers. The papers gave us seven days to pack our entire lives in boxes and find a new place to live. If we weren’t out in seven days, we had to appear in front of a judge to appeal the eviction. The first time we went to court, the judge called our landlord to the stand. They spoke in low voices and suddenly, the judge told us we had more time. My mother and I still speculate that the judge pointed out that seven days for an eviction is, in fact, illegal.

The judge gave us seven more days to figure it out. We toured apartment after apartment. As I drove to class I sent my mother pictures of for rent signs I passed on the way. Our text chain was entirely made up of Zillow and Apartments.com listings. But, we were a mess on paper. I made probably three to four hundred dollars every two weeks, if that. I had no credit and my mother’s credit was in the shitter. So we got denied for apartment after apartment. 

Then there were my mother’s mobility issues. Even though she was still walking, stairs were an issue. She couldn’t lift her legs too high. And they were so numb that every step for her was painful. With no answers on her condition– all she knew was her brain would tell her to step but for some reason, her feet would not comply. 

I became finely attuned to what would work and what wouldn’t. There was an apartment with a really nice man, in a really good neighborhood with a price point that was in our budget. The moment we pulled into the parking spot, I felt a pit form in my stomach. We both took deep breaths and as we approached the front porch, I eyed the height of the step leading into the apartment. It was too high and we both knew it. I remember the moment she hit the ground. 

The extra seven days were simply not enough time. At the end of them, we had made no progress. Deep and agonizing dread began to set in. I contemplated asking my friends to stay with them but then what would happen to my mom? Where would she go? At the time, I don’t think my pride allowed me to ask my friends for help in that way. I was so used to being jealous of their lives and trying to keep up the illusion that I was a normal college kid, I hadn’t even told them what was going on.

I put on a mask for everyone I knew. I don’t think I’ve ever lied more, and to so many people, in my life. I remember telling my manager at the time that I was going to be late to work because I had court, and she told all my coworkers because to her, it was amusing gossip. As soon as I got there, I was bombarded with questions about what I had done to have to go to court. With the deadline of seven days looming on my mind, I told them I had gotten a speeding ticket, choked down tears and continued my work day. 

That’s when my brain began to shut down and this is where details start to become muddled. I believe we went to court once more and bought ourselves another week. We had finally found an apartment that would do. It was a second floor apartment but my mother truly believed she could make it– which I don’t think I ever believed. The landlord was the shady kind who didn’t care about credit scores or background checks as long as we made rent on time– which probably wouldn’t have happened either. The only problem was that we had a dog. I remember waking up one morning to my mother crying on the phone. They won’t take us. 

And then it was over. Our landlord sent men to our apartment to set our things out on the corner. We were poorly packed and emotionally unprepared. And the men were on a schedule. They quickly started setting our things out to on the sidewalk for the entire neighborhood to see. My mother’s friends helped us grab as much as we could. We signed up for a cheap storage unit and put all of our earthly belongings in there. Our couch, our clothes, our pictures, our everything– in a box. 

I remember I had left my favorite shoes behind. I went back to where our lives had ended and searched in the pile of our belongings deemed as garbage. The men our landlord had sent to “help” us move were still there. One of them came to me and apologized. He said he didn’t think this was right. He said he was so sorry. I don’t remember what I said, but I do remember thinking: then why are you doing it?  

After my mother and I were evicted, we checked into the cheap motel, just until we got back on our feet. I thought we would be there for a couple of days, a week, maybe. 

We checked in and out of motels for an entire year.