When my sister Ruth finally found me, I was sitting on a twin bed in an upstairs room, my left eye still bruised. Marcus filled the doorway, blocking the exit. Ruth looked at my face and asked the question I’d choked on for months: “Why isn’t she living in the house she bought with Otis?” Marcus didn’t hesitate. He smiled and said, “That house is my wife’s now. And if my mother keeps talking, I’ll hit her again and she’ll wear that color for weeks.”

I put the broken wedding photo in the last box and walked out of my house for the last time.

The room Marcus found for me was on the second floor of an old, run-down building. The stairs creaked with every step. The hallway smelled of mildew and stale food. When I opened the door, my heart dropped.

Ten by ten feet. That was it. A twin bed shoved against the wall, a tiny closet without a door, a window that didn’t close and let in the night chill. The bathroom was down the hall, shared with five strangers whose names I never learned because nobody talked to anybody in that place.

“It’s temporary, Mama,” Marcus said as he left me there. “Just until you get settled. Until you find something better.”

That was six months ago.

Six months in that room. Six months listening to the couple next door scream at each other every night. Six months smelling grease and old frying oil seeping under my door. Six months sleeping in a bed that wasn’t mine in a place that would never feel like home.

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