It’s Not Always About Me

They knew it was coming. And so did I.

Dawn and I were spending much more time at my house rather than her own. Things were getting creepier there; her parents were always edgy and angry about this or that. It was a crap shoot as to whether the power or the phone would be on based on whether or not the bill got paid. The cable was discontinued ages ago because they could no longer afford it. And her father was still out of work.

We had been instructed by her parents to not answer the phone any more. The calls were getting more and more frequent, asking for money for this collection agency or that one. Without the aid of caller ID, it was a crapshoot as to whether or not you’d get one of the scary people on the phone. But what was worse was when the men started coming to the house. One afternoon Dawn and I were in her room, the one with windows that looked out on the front of her house and the parking lot below, when a knock came on the door. Dawn quietly crept to the top of the staircase; her mother was standing at the foot of it, back cowered into the wall, shaking her head up at her to tell her to pretend as if no one was home. After several minutes of vigorous knocking, we saw a dark suited man stride away from the door and get into a car that we didn’t recognize.

After a few more incidents such as that, it was no surprise when Dawn told me one day that they were being evicted from their home. They hadn’t paid the fees to the condo association for years, the mortgage hadn’t been paid in months. A company would come that weekend to forcibly remove them from the townhome that they’d lived in since Dawn was in elementary school. I asked her what was the plan, where were they going to go?

“They don’t know. They haven’t made any plans. They haven’t packed any boxes.” She looked at me with a mixture of anger, frustration and fear.

Dawn had five days left to live in her house and no where to go. And I thought I had problems.

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