Eviction

Personal short story adaptation about when my mom got evicted last year.

I’ll never forget when I got that one text that changed everything. My own mother telling me that she would lose our house in two weeks. I was devastated, how could she let this happen? She had six months to fix it, to find somewhere new, to pay the debt, but she did nothing. I went on Zillow and frantically searched for apartments. There were a few that looked promising and I sent her the links, but it didn’t help. There was nothing I could do and I knew that.

About a week later I took a bus back home so I could pack up my things. I only had one day to sort everything and put it in boxes. There were so many precious memories in my room. Stuffed animals I’d had since childhood, notes from my friends, drawings and art projects from school. A ceramic soda can that said “Nicola” on it that I made in second grade sat on my dresser, begging to be admired. All of my clothes and blankets were dumped into a huge pile on my bed, making a perfect spot for my cat Rusty to have his afternoon nap. I spent half of my time throwing things into boxes and the other half just looking at him. He was so peaceful, just laying there. He didn’t know what was happening, he didn’t deserve this. I did as much as I could but I didn’t get through all of it. I spent the last bit of time gathering everything I couldn’t stand to lose and putting it in one small box. It was so hard not to cry, I could hardly stand it. My heart was constantly racing.

That was the last night I spent in that house. The house we had been in for nine years, the house my sister grew up in. I had sleepovers there, birthday parties. I invited my first boyfriend over to that house, gave my first handjob in that house. That was the house I came back to after a s****y day at school to sit on the couch and watch The Ellen Show. And now it was being taken away from me. I spent that night calling people crying, desperately trying to find someone to take our cats until my mom found a new place. Begging my grandma to help but instead hearing more about how it was my mom’s fault and how she couldn’t enable her anymore. I tried friends, relatives...anyone I could think of, but nobody was able to take them in. I hadn’t even thought about my dog yet, poor Buddy.

The last person I called was my dad. He knew what was happening, but I hadn’t talked with him about it yet. I was already sobbing when he answered the phone. I could barely speak. I asked if he would take in our pets so that they wouldn’t have to go to the shelter but he said no. I was furious, why would no one help me? How could my own father turn away these animals that I loved so dearly? I choked and said that I couldn’t stand to see them put in a shelter, especially Buddy. My baby Buddy, I was the one who picked him out. How could I send him back to the shelter we had adopted him from. Finally my dad said he would take Buddy for us. I tried to slow down and breathe, I could live with that. At least I wasn’t losing everything. He said he would pick Buddy up the next day and take him home. I must have thanked him at least a dozen times, I will never forget that he did that for me. In the end, however, nobody we knew could take our two cats. My mom ended up giving them to a young married couple in the cities but a couple months later she got a call that one of them had been found as a stray and returned to the shelter. To this day I don’t know where they are or what happened to them, and now I have to live with that.

I cried every night for two weeks when I went back to school. Thinking about that last time I saw Rusty, thinking about the shame emanating from my mom as she handed Buddy’s leash to my dad. My poor roommate, I felt so bad for her. She would avoid the room as much as she could so she didn’t have to see me breaking down. We weren’t that close so I never blamed her for that. I wouldn’t want to be around me during those times either. I had cut off my ex in October so I couldn’t turn to him for support anymore. My friends at other schools were getting tired of all the baggage I was carrying with me. Overall I felt very alone. I started missing more classes, especially chemistry. After a certain number of lectures I got an email from my professor asking if there was any reason why I was missing classes. I poured my heart out to her, explaining everything that had happened with my mom in the past. After a previous experience with a professor I wasn’t expecting much from her. She sent me back an email saying that she was sorry about my experience and telling me that she would call counseling services and set up an appointment for me. I cried reading that email. Just to know that someone cared about what I was going through meant so much.

My first counseling appointment was right before winter break. I walked in and filled out the little survey they gave me. Then I waited, mentally preparing myself for the story I would have to tell. Her office was small and darkly lit, I don’t think there were any windows. There were pamphlets on a stand about depression, self harm and suicide. It felt like they were staring at me, boring into my skin. I couldn’t stand to look at them. My counselor looked at me and asked “So what brings you here, why are you attending counseling?” So I launched into my story and explained everything to her. I tried to include everything and I lasted maybe two minutes before I started crying. I stuttered through the rest of my problems and the half an hour flew by. When I left I felt numb, nothing felt better. Nothing felt like it was solved. I cried for an hour when I got back to my dorm. So I stopped going to counseling.

It was really difficult to manage my feelings about what had happened. My grades dropped, I had to withdraw from classes and I sank into a depressive state. I also felt some anger towards my mom for letting all of this happen. I love her more than anything but it was so hard not to be mad at her. I still struggle with it at times. Thinking about everything that I lost was hard, but acknowledging that I couldn’t do anything about it was harder. When life throws s**t at you that’s out of your control, all you can do is what is best for you. I have since returned to counseling and it does help. Even if we don’t always talk about deep issues, it’s nice to have someone to talk to. I still miss my cats, I think about them frequently and sometimes I still cry over them. It’s still hard to look at pictures of them. But I have recovered a lot since the eviction, the only thing I still haven’t done is completely forgiven my mom. She doesn’t know that, but it’s still hard to not just call her and yell at her for not doing anything to fix her situation. I’m sure with time it will get better, but for now all I can do is help myself and hope that it will get better.

Author's Note

I tried to stay as close to the truth as I could. Very little of the story is embellished. Let me know if you like the length and/or style of the piece.