But I never begged. Not once.
Eventually, I found a small, crumbling studio above a bodega in Queens. The landlord, Mrs. Carter, was a retired nurse with kind eyes. She saw something in me—maybe strength, or maybe desperation—and offered a discount on rent if I helped her run the store.
I said yes.
During the day, I manned the register. At night, I painted—using brushes from thrift shops and leftover house paint. Lily slept in a laundry basket beside me, her little hands curled like seashells under her cheek.
It wasn’t much. But it was ours.
And every time Lily smiled in her sleep, I remembered who I was fighting for.
