I’m a single mom raising three wonderful daughters: Lily, 10, Emma, 7, and Sophie, 5. We rent a small, cozy house. It isn’t perfect, but it’s ours, and my girls love it here.
Last week, I got a call from our landlord, Mr. Peterson.
“Listen,” he barked, “you need to be out for a week. My brother’s visiting, and he needs the house. I don’t care where you go.”
I felt my stomach drop. “But this is our home! We have a lease—”
“Don’t start with that lease nonsense,” he cut me off. “Remember last month when you were late on rent? I could’ve kicked you out then. Be gone by Friday, or maybe you won’t come back at all.”
I couldn’t believe it. He didn’t care that I had nowhere to go, no family nearby, and no money for a hotel. I knew I couldn’t risk losing our home, so I packed up the girls. We ended up in a cheap, cramped hostel across town. It was noisy, uncomfortable, and my daughters hated it. Sophie cried herself to sleep every night because we’d left her stuffed bunny, Mr. Floppy, behind.
By the fourth day, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I decided to go back for her bunny. I knocked on the door, unsure what to expect. When it opened, I was stunned. Mr. Peterson had lied.
Our house isn’t much, but it’s ours. The floors creak, the kitchen paint peels, and the walls are a little crooked. But it’s home. Lily, Emma, and Sophie make it home with their laughter, little quirks, and endless energy.
Money is always on my mind. My waitressing job barely covers rent and bills. There’s no cushion, no backup plan. If something goes wrong, I don’t know how we’d manage.
The phone rang while I was hanging laundry.
“Hello?”
“Nancy, it’s Peterson.”
My stomach knotted.
“Oh… hi, Mr. Peterson. Is everything okay?”
“I need you out of the house for a week,” he said casually, as if it were a favor I should be grateful for.
“What? But this is our home!” I protested.
“Don’t start with that lease nonsense,” he snapped. “Remember when you were late on rent? I could’ve evicted you. Be gone by Friday.”
“I was late by one day,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “My daughter was sick…”
“Doesn’t matter,” he interrupted. “You have till Friday.”
I sat on the couch, phone in hand, heart racing. No savings, no family nearby, no way to fight back. If I spoke up, he’d use it against me.
“Mama, what’s wrong?” Lily asked, peering at me with concern.
“Nothing, sweetheart,” I said, forcing a smile. “Go play with your sisters.”
Thursday night, I packed the little we could carry into bags. The girls asked questions I couldn’t answer.
“We’re going on an adventure,” I said cheerfully.
Sophie clutched Mr. Floppy. “Is he coming too?”
I swallowed hard. “Not this time, sweetie.”
The hostel was worse than expected—tiny, noisy, and stifling. Sophie cried herself to sleep each night. Every sob felt like a knife in my heart.
By the fourth night, I’d had enough.
“I’ll get him,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone else.
I walked to the house, heart pounding. Knuckles rapped on the door. A man opened it—tall, with kind eyes.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I—I’m the tenant here,” I stammered. “My daughter left her stuffed bunny, and I need to get it.”
He looked confused. “You live here?”
“Yes,” I said, voice tight. “But Mr. Peterson told us to leave for a week. My kids and I are stuck in a hostel, and my youngest can’t sleep without her bunny.”
His expression darkened, then softened. “I’m so sorry. Come in. Let’s find it.”
Inside, he helped me find Mr. Floppy. Sophie’s treasure was safe. He listened as I recounted everything—the call, the threats, the hostel.
“This isn’t right,” he said, pulling out his phone. A heated conversation followed. When he hung up, he looked at me.
“Pack your things. You’re coming home tonight. My brother will cover your rent for the next six months, and I’ll find somewhere else to stay.”
That evening, we moved back in. Sophie’s joy at seeing Mr. Floppy again was priceless.
Over the following weeks, Jack—his name—kept showing up: fixing leaky faucets, bringing groceries, playing with the girls. Slowly, his presence became a constant support. He was patient, funny, genuinely caring. He wasn’t just helping—he was becoming family.
Months later, sitting on the porch after the girls went to bed, Jack turned to me.
“I don’t want you and the girls to ever feel this way again,” he said softly. “No one should be scared of losing their home overnight. I want to help you find something permanent. Will you marry me?”
I was stunned. “Jack… yes!”