When Nancy’s landlord asked that she and her three girls leave their rental house for a week, she believed things couldn’t get worse. However, a sudden encounter with the landlord’s brother exposed a terrible betrayal.
Our house isn’t big, but it’s ours.
My children, Lily, Emma, and Sophie, make it feel that way with their laughter and small gestures that remind me why I work so hard.
Money was constantly on my mind. My waitressing job barely paid for our rent and bills. There was no cushion or backup plan.
The phone rang the next day as I was hanging laundry to dry.
“Nancy, it’s Peterson.”
His voice caused my stomach to clench. “Oh, hi, Mr. Peterson. Is everything okay?”
“I need you out of the house for a week,” he said, as casually as if he were asking me to water his plants.
“My brother’s coming to town, and he needs a place to stay. I told him he could use your house.”
I assumed I misheard him. “Wait—this is my home. We have a lease!”
“Don’t start with that lease nonsense,” he snapped. “Remember when you were late on rent last month? I could’ve kicked you out then, but I didn’t. You owe me.”
“Mr. Peterson, please,” I said, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“Not my problem,” he said coldly, and then the line went d.e.a.d.
I sat on the couch, looking at the phone in my palm.
My heart raced in my ears, and I felt unable to breathe.
“Mama, what’s wrong?” Lily, my oldest, inquired from the doorway, her eyes wide with anxiety.
I forced a smile. “Nothing, sweetheart. Go play with your sisters.”
By Thursday night, I had packed what little we could fit into a few bags. The girls were full of questions, but I couldn’t explain what was going on.
“We’re going on an adventure,” I told them, trying to sound cheerful.
The accommodation was worse than I anticipated. The room was small, just large enough for the four of us, and the walls were so thin that we could hear every cough, creak, and loud conversation on the other side.
Lily tried to divert her sisters by playing I Spy, but it didn’t last long. Sophie’s little face crumpled, and tears flowed down her cheeks.
“Where’s Mr. Floppy?” she cried, her voice breaking.
My stomach sank. In my haste to go, I had forgotten her bunny.
“He’s still at home,” I said, my throat tightening.
“I can’t sleep without him!” Sophie sobbed, clutching my arm.
That night, while Sophie wept herself to sleep, I stared at the cracked ceiling, feeling powerless.
Sophie’s crying continued until the fourth night.
Every sob felt like a knife through my heart.
“Please, Mama,” she whispered, her voice raw. “I want Mr. Floppy.”
I gripped her tightly and rocked her back and forth.
I could not handle it anymore.
I parked down the street, my heart racing as I gazed at the house. What if they don’t let me in? What if Mr. Peterson was present? Sophie’s tear-stained visage would not leave my memory.
I took a deep breath and approached the door, Sophie’s pleading “please” resonating in my ears. My knuckles pounded against the wood as I held my breath.
The door opened, and a man I had never seen before stood there. He was tall, with a pleasant expression and bright green eyes.
“Can I help you?” he asked, looking puzzled.
“Hi,” I stammered. “I—I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m the tenant here. My daughter left her stuffed bunny inside, and I was hoping I could grab it.”
He blinked at me. “Wait. You live here?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling a lump form in my throat. “But Mr. Peterson told us we had to leave for a week because you were staying here.”
His face hardened, and for a moment I thought he was upset with me.
He mumbled, “That son of a…” He paused, closed his eyes, and took a long breath.
He stepped aside, and I hesitated before entering. The familiar smell of home reached me, and my eyes burned with tears that I refused to shed. Jack—he introduced himself as Jack—helped me explore Sophie’s room, which appeared to be untouched.
“Here he is,” Jack said, pulling Mr. Floppy from under the bed.
I clutched the bunny close, envisioning Sophie’s delight. “Thank you,” I replied, my voice shaking.
“Tell me everything,” Jack said, sitting on the edge of Sophie’s bed. “What exactly did my brother say to you?”
I hesitated but eventually told him everything: the call, the threats, and the hostel. He listened quietly, clenching his jaw with each word.
“You kicked a single mom and her kids out of their home? For me?” Jack’s voice was sharp. “No, you’re not getting away with this. Fix it now, or I will.”
He hung up and turned to me. “Pack your things at the hostel. You’re coming back tonight.”
Over the next few weeks, Jack continued to turn up. He mended the kitchen’s faulty faucet. One night, he brought over groceries.
The girls adored him. Lily sought his advice on her scientific assignment. Emma drew him into board games. Sophie even warmed up to him, gave Mr. Floppy a “hug” and invited Jack to attend their tea party.
I began to notice more of the man beneath the pleasant gestures. He was hilarious, patient, and concerned about my children. Our dinners together eventually turned romantic.
A few months later, while we sat on the porch after the girls had gone to bed, Jack said gently.
“I want to help you find something permanent,” he continued. “Will you marry me?”
I was stunned. “Jack… I don’t know what to say. Yes!”
A month later, we moved into a lovely little house that Jack found for us. Lily had her own room. Emma painted hers pink. Sophie dashed to hers, holding Mr. Floppy as a shield.
Jack stayed for dinner that night and helped me set the table. As the females chatted, I looked at him and realized he wasn’t only our hero. He was a family member.
