***
That evening, I made calls: the school counselor, my neighbor who works at a food pantry, and the landlord of Lizie’s building.
“No kid should be carrying this alone.”
Dan drove to pick up groceries with the food coupons we’d saved, and Sam baked banana bread with Lizie. The kitchen filled with laughter again.
A social worker visited, asking questions.
The landlord came by and spoke to Paul about finding a way to stall the eviction another month.
“If you can do some handy work around the building, Paul, and pay off a small portion of the money owed, we can reach an agreement.”
A social worker visited, asking questions.
At school, the counselor admitted they should’ve asked questions sooner. Lizie got free lunch and real support after that.
It wasn’t a miracle, but it was hope.
Lizie stayed with us a few nights a week. Sam lent her pajamas, taught her how to style her hair in messy space buns. Lizie started helping Sam with math, her voice growing a little stronger each day.
Dan took Lizie and her father to the food bank and showed them how to get on the list for rental assistance.
Lizie got free lunch and real support after that.
At first, Lizie’s dad refused.
“Pride is a hard thing to swallow, Helena,” Dan told me. “We can’t push him faster than he’s ready.”
But when Lizie quietly said, “Please, Dad. I’m tired,” he gave in.
***
Weeks passed. The fridge was never full, but there was always enough for one more. I stopped counting meat slices and started counting smiles.
