Inside was cash—tens, twenties, and a few ones, carefully stacked together. A handwritten note rested on top.
“Rent. Three months.”
I stared at the words, unable to speak.
She explained that after leaving, she had slept on a friend’s couch before sharing a tiny room with two other girls. She had taken extra shifts at work, walked whenever she could instead of spending money on transportation, and sometimes skipped meals to make her savings last.
She had been sixteen years old, trying to survive without the security of a home.
“I wanted to prove I wasn’t lazy or irresponsible,” she said quietly. “You told me I had to.”
Those words broke something inside me.
I had expected her to struggle and come crawling back, ready to admit that I had been right.
Instead, she had endured months of hardship and returned carrying money she believed she owed us.
