Three months of unemployment turned into six. My severance package evaporated. Then came a medical emergency—a simple appendicitis that, without insurance, cost me thousands. Then the credit card bills came due.
I sold the Italian suits. The bank took the car. The landlord posted an eviction notice.
My “friends”—the ones who loved my steak dinners—suddenly stopped returning my texts. It turns out, when you’re broke in America, you become invisible.
Last Tuesday, I found myself at the Greyhound bus station with one suitcase and $14 in my pocket. I had nowhere else to go. My pride was dead; I just wanted to survive.
The walk from the bus stop to her house felt like walking to my execution. The house looked exactly the same. The paint was peeling slightly on the porch railing.
