If you’ve never tried to get a six-year-old ready for school while living in a family shelter, I can summarize the experience for you. It’s like running a small airport, except the passengers are emotional, the security line is shame, and you’re doing it all with one sock missing.
That morning, Laya’s sock was the one missing.
“Mom,” she whispered, the way kids do when they’re trying to help you not fall apart. “It’s okay. I can wear different socks.”
She held up one pink sock with a unicorn and one white sock that used to be white. I stared at them like they were evidence in a crime scene.
“It’s a bold fashion choice,” I said. “Very ‘I do what I want.’”
Laya smiled, and just like that, for half a second, I forgot where we were.
Then the shelter door opened behind us and the cold slapped me back into reality.
We were outside St. Brigid Family Shelter. 6:12 a.m. The sky was still a bruised gray over the Portland skyline. The sidewalk was damp. The air had that winter smell, metallic and clean, like the world had been scrubbed too hard.
Laya adjusted her backpack, which was bigger than she was. I tugged the zipper up on her puffy coat and tried not to look at the sign above the entrance.
FAMILY SHELTER.
It wasn’t even the word “shelter” that got me. It was the word “family.” Like we were a category. Like we were a label on a box.
“Okay,” I said, forcing brightness into my voice. “School bus in five minutes.”
Laya nodded. She was brave in a quiet way that made me feel both proud and guilty at the same time.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
TAP ” READ MORE ” 👇
