By that point, my life was falling apart.
I was behind on rent, my fridge was almost empty, and my landlord kept calling so often that I started jumping every time my phone lit up.
I let the calls ring until the screen went dark, then stared at my reflection in it like I might find some answer there. I was living from one debt to another, borrowing time, borrowing hope, and I had no idea how to get out.
Even getting through a normal workday felt like dragging my body through wet cement. That evening, all I wanted was to get inside my apartment, kick off my shoes, and figure out whether I could make dinner out of half a loaf of bread, eggs, and a bottle of hot sauce.
Then I saw the envelope in my mailbox.
My name was on it, written in neat handwriting. Not the rushed print of a bill collector. Not my landlord’s sharp, angry scrawl. It looked careful. Personal.
I opened it right there in the hallway, with the flickering light above me and my bag still hanging off one shoulder.