My son won the lottery, kicked me out of the house, and said: “You’re worthless! Go live in a nursing home.” I wandered aimlessly to clear my mind. When I sat down on a bench, a homeless man walked up to me, smiled, and said: “You look just like my late wife…”

She looked us over carefully when Blaine introduced me as his wife.

“Thought you said your wife was dead,” she said bluntly.

“That’s what I believed,” Blaine replied. “Turns out my son lied to both of us. We just found each other again 3 days ago.”

Mrs. Patterson studied us both for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Room 12 on the second floor. Bathrooms shared with the room next door, but the current tenant works night, so you shouldn’t have conflicts. First month’s rent in advance, no exceptions.”

I counted out $300 from my rapidly diminishing savings, trying not to think about how quickly we were going through money with no income coming in.

The room was small but clean with a double bed, a tiny dresser, and a window that looked out onto a narrow alley. After days of sleeping apart in the shelter, the privacy felt luxurious.