My boyfriend lived with me and my son for 3 years. Last week he grounded my son for lying. I said, “You’re not his father.” He snapped, “After all I’ve sacrificed? We are done!” Then he left. A few days later, my blood ran cold when I found an envelope taped to the inside of our front door.
It had my name written across it in thick black ink. My hands started shaking before I even opened it.
Inside was a copy of our lease agreement with a note clipped to it. The note read, “You have 30 days to vacate. I’ve already spoken to the landlord.”
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. The apartment wasn’t in my name alone. It had been easier back then to put it in his, since his credit was better.
I leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor. My son, Darian, was in his room, humming to himself like everything was normal.
I didn’t want him to see me panic. He had already lost enough in his short ten years.
When I first met Tomas, Darian was seven. Tomas was warm and funny, the kind of man who made grocery shopping feel like a date.