The first of the month always brought a chill, but today it felt colder. My family huddled in our cramped apartment, the air thick with unspoken dread. Papa's face was etched with defeat, Mama’s eyes red-rimmed from crying. The bright yellow eviction notice, a cruel splash of color on our worn coffee table, spelled out our doom.

“Why didn’t you tell me you lost your job?” Mama wept, her voice raw with despair. “We could have made up the rent some other way, but now there’s no time.”

My heart hammered against my ribs, a desperate bird trapped in a cage. We were going to be homeless. The word echoed in my mind, a terrifying, desolate sound. A tear, hot and heavy, slipped down my cheek and landed on the page of my diary, blurring the ink.

Later, curled in the dim privacy of my parents’ closet, the small beam of my flashlight illuminated the stark reality of our situation. No friends could lend us money, no possessions were valuable enough to pawn. My brothers’ meager wages were no match for the impossible sum we owed.

Then, Mama’s silhouette filled the doorway, her face a mask of sorrow. “Grace,” she whispered, her voice heavy with a plea I didn't yet understand, “Can you come out of there so we can talk?” My heart twisted. I knew, with a chilling certainty, that whatever she was about to ask would change everything.