He left, and I filed for divorce.
It took six months to finalize. The court couldn't even find him to serve the papers. He was homeless, jobless, bouncing from couch to couch like a ghost.
Eventually, they posted the notice in the paper. He didn't respond. He vanished like he always had.
So our divorce was uncontested.
I had no food in the house.
No money for daycare.
No backup plan.
My mom was the one who told me to apply for government assistance.
I was embarrassed.
Ashamed, honestly. It felt like failure. Like admitting I couldn't do it all on my own.
But she looked me in the eyes and said, "That's what it's there for. For moms like you. Who need help."
So I applied.
At the time, I was making about $275 a week at my job. That was barely enough to scrape together the bills for the massive house I was trying to survive in, five bedrooms, two and a half baths, and echoed with every empty room I couldn't afford to fill.
My daycare bill alone was $900 a month.
Let me break that down for anyone who still thinks single moms are just lazy:
$275 a week is about $1,100 a month.
Minus daycare?
That left me with $200 to cover gas, diapers, utilities, clothes, shampoo, toilet paper, everything.
So if you're the kind of person who thinks single moms don't deserve help, congratulations: you're part of the problem.
Because deadbeat dads sure as hell aren't footing the bill.
Anyway... I got approved.
Childcare assistance covered all but $50 of my daycare.
And we got $700 a month in food stamps.
We went to the store next door that day.
And when I say we went to the store… we went to the store.
We filled the cart. Snacks. Frozen waffles. Fruit snacks. Cereal. Mac and cheese. Pudding. Juice boxes. Chips. Crackers. Everything.
We hadn't had snacks in years.
Sure, I bought the basics. Bread. Milk. Eggs. Ground beef.
But I also bought junk.
And I felt zero shame.
Because when you haven't had enough in months, when every meal has been rationed, when every trip to the store meant calculating what can wait another week, you don't judge the junk food.
You grab the fruit snacks and the Oreos and the off-brand soda and you put them in your cart like you're allowed to be full.
I had two carts. Two. Full. Carts.
And when I got home, I cried.
Not because I was ashamed.
But because, for the first time in years, my cabinets were stocked.
My fridge was full.
My deep freeze buzzed like a promise.
I didn't have to say "no" to snacks that week.
I didn't have to say "maybe next time."
My kids asked for treats and I said, "Yes."
And that yes meant more to me than anyone passing judgment in a checkout line ever could.
My babies were happy.
Healthy. Loved.
They thrived in daycare. Ran in with smiles, came home with glitter in their hair and stories on their lips. It wasn't just childcare. It was safety. Stability. A chance to just be kids.
We moved into my parents' basement so I could save money.
It wasn't glamorous, but it was warm. And safe. And it gave us breathing room, finally.
Then I applied for a promotion at work.
I was terrified to even ask. I didn't feel like I was allowed to want more, not when I'd spent so long just trying to survive.
But I asked anyway.
And I got it.
A promotion. A raise. Almost double what I'd been making before.
I wanted to scream. Cry. Dance in the damn parking lot.
I called my mom from the bathroom stall at work and sobbed so hard she couldn't understand me at first.
I hadn't just survived.
I'd made it.
For the first time in years, it felt like the tide was finally turning.
Like we were more than just surviving.
We were starting to live.
We went out for ice cream. I bought real laundry detergent instead of dollar store knockoffs. I said yes to the book fair.
And every penny I saved living in that basement? I stacked it with purpose.
I wasn't just saving. I was planning.
Planning for a future that belonged to us.
Planning for the day I'd buy my own house, plant roots, and show my babies what stability looked like.
My kids didn't just have me.
They had all of us.
My parents. My brother. My two sisters.
A whole team of adults parenting them, loving them, and living alongside them.
It wasn't just a basement, it was a village.
We lived like that for two years.
It was tight. It was chaotic. It was loud and imperfect and exactly what we needed.
Eventually, John started getting visits with the kids.
I asked for supervised visits. Because, you know, the cops had been called multiple times, but what do I know?
Apparently "a safe environment for children" just means he didn't kill us on record. 🙄
He was supposed to get them one weekend a month.
We eventually settled on every other weekend.
Which meant...
I could date again.
Cue the chaos.