An Open Door: New Beginnings

Part 1

The days leading up to moving into that apartment were a blur of chaos and exhaustion. I had spent the past few months in survival mode, every day a battle to piece together some semblance of stability for me and the kids. It felt like I had been on the run for an eternity, my mind always two steps ahead, scanning for the next place we could crash, the next way to scrape by.

When I left the marriage in September 2017, all I had was my car and whatever I could fit into it. It wasn’t much—just some clothes, a few toys for the kids, basic toiletries, and a handful of documents I knew I would need. Everything else was left behind, a life we walked away from in search of something better, something safer. The car became our lifeline, our home on wheels. It took us down to Mexico at first, a desperate attempt to escape and regroup, but we couldn’t stay there long. We headed north to Seattle, hoping that distance would bring some clarity, some kind of plan. But even Seattle couldn’t provide what we needed. We ended up back in California, no better off than when we’d started, but at least with a little more resolve.

For a while, we stayed with a friend in her garage. It was cramped and cold, the concrete floor absorbing the chill of the winter nights. There were no windows, just a sliding glass door that didn’t lock, no natural light to tell us when the day began or ended. It was just a space—a roof over our heads and walls that offered the thinnest veil of privacy. But even that came at a price. The bathroom was off-limits. I had to figure out how to potty train Kingston with nothing but a pop-up tent and a bucket. The indignity of it stung, not just for me, but for the kids. But they were too young to notice; they were happy just to be with me, to have each other. Aside from Kingston constantly reminding me that every motel we had stayed in, and now this garage, was without a kitchen, they were content. For them, the garage was an adventure, another chapter in the unpredictable story we were writing.

But it was more than that. It was a betrayal from someone I considered close—a friend who had offered a hand and then shut the door in our faces. We weren’t allowed inside the house at night; the doors were locked, for her kid’s safety. It was a constant reminder that we were on borrowed time, that this arrangement was tenuous and could be ripped away at any moment.

Every day was a juggling act. I hustled, finding whatever work I could to scrape together some cash. My days were spent driving around, making phone calls, knocking on doors, and sending out desperate messages to people I thought might be able to help. I sold items on Craigslist, did odd jobs, and swallowed my pride to ask for donations from local charities. My mind was always racing, calculating how many hours I’d need to work, how many meals I could afford, how much gas was left in the tank. I was operating on fumes, both literally and figuratively.

Somehow, I scraped together just enough to consider getting us out of that garage. It felt like a distant dream, the thought of having a place where the kids could sleep on real beds, where we could lock the door and call it ours. I scoured listings, searching for anything within my limited budget. Most places required a down payment I couldn’t afford, credit checks I wouldn’t pass. I must have applied to a dozen places, each rejection feeling like another door slamming shut in our faces.

But then, there it was. A small, run-down apartment just outside of the better part of town. The landlord didn’t ask too many questions, didn’t care about my lack of recent rental history or the gap in my credit report. He just wanted the deposit and first month’s rent, and he wanted it quickly. I pulled together every dollar I had, borrowed from whoever would lend to me, sold the last of what I owned that could fetch a price. I managed to gather enough to cover the deposit, barely scraping by.

The day I signed the lease, my hands were shaking. Relief and fear flooded my veins, an overwhelming cocktail of emotions that threatened to bring me to my knees. I handed over the cash, clutching that tiny slip of paper—the lease—as if it were a ticket to salvation. In many ways, it was. I walked out of the landlord’s office with the keys in hand, feeling like I had just climbed a mountain. I had done it. I had found us a home.

The days that followed were a whirlwind. I packed up everything we had left in the garage—just a few bags of clothes, some blankets, and a small box of toys. It all fit neatly into the back of the car, a testament to how much we had shed in the process of starting over. Everything from the life I had before was gone, stripped away. The only things that mattered now were packed tightly in the back seat: Kingston, Zuma, and our few belongings.

I strapped the kids into their car seats, taking a deep breath as I turned the key in the ignition. I glanced back at them, their eyes wide with excitement. They had no idea what a big deal this was, how hard it had been to get to this point. They just knew that we were going somewhere new, somewhere that was ours.

As I drove toward the apartment, I felt a lump rise in my throat. I had left behind the life I had known—the security, the comfort, even the illusion of a future that marriage was supposed to bring. I had traded it for uncertainty, for a fight that I hadn’t even known I had the strength to take on. But as I glanced at the kids in the rearview mirror, I knew I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. They were worth every hardship, every sleepless night, every moment of doubt.

We pulled up to the apartment complex, and I felt a surge of emotion wash over me. This was our fresh start, the beginning of something new. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was ours. The walls might have been paper thin, the floors scuffed and stained, but it was a place where we could close the door and feel safe, where we could build a life that was free of the fear and constraints that had defined the past few months. Oh and of course, to Kingston’s great pleasure, it had a kitchen.

As we unpacked the car, I watched Kingston and Zuma run through the empty living room, their giggles and laughter filled the mostly empty space, echoing off the bare walls. They were still too young to notice the struggles we faced, to the tightrope we were walking, and for that, I was grateful. They didn’t seem to mind that we had been on the move, that we had called a garage home just days before. In their eyes, this tiny apartment was a palace. I couldn’t help but smile, a mixture of relief and pride swelling in my chest. I had done it. We had made it.

The apartment was small, just four walls that barely kept out the noise from the neighboring units. It was sparsely furnished—one shared queen-sized mattress for me and the kids, a hand-me-down table in the corner, and a tangle of toys scattered across the floor. It didn’t matter, though. We finally had a roof over our heads that wasn’t a car or a pop-up tent in a garage where we weren’t wanted. We had our own space, however temporary it might be.

It was late afternoon when I finally laid them down for a nap. Zuma curled into a little ball, and Kingston sprawled out, his limbs everywhere, looking like he owned the world. I watched them for a moment, the rise and fall of their tiny chests a rhythmic comfort I desperately needed. Then, I crept into the hallway to catch a moment of quiet.

The hallway stretched out long and narrow, the light flickering from the lone overhead bulb. I had a heavy feeling in my chest, a dull ache I couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the uncertainty of our future, the weight of trying to make a life for us from nothing. Or maybe it was just exhaustion. I rubbed my temples, closing my eyes, willing the tension to drain from my shoulders.

When I opened my eyes, he was there. I knew, in that moment, that nothing about this new chapter was going to be easy.