I Was Barely Surviving, Too
My name is Riley. I’m 28, seven months pregnant, and completely on my own.
When I told the baby’s father, he packed his bags that same night.
“I’m not ready for this,” he said, like I’d asked him to do the impossible instead of the obvious.
Since then, it’s been me, Bean (my nickname for the baby), and my beat-up Corolla that groans every time I turn the key.
Money isn’t “tight.” Money is a constant calculation.
I work part-time at Miller’s Pharmacy downtown, but my paycheck disappears faster than it hits my account.
Rent. Utilities. Doctor visits. Gas. The random things you don’t plan for—like a tire that decides it’s done with life.
That Tuesday, I walked into Greenfield Shopping Center already negotiating with myself.
Skip fruit. Generic cereal. Oatmeal because it lasts longer. If I’m careful, I can still afford prenatal vitamins.
Then I heard the noise.
Not normal noise. Not “busy store” noise.
The kind of noise that makes you look up because something is about to get ugly.
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