Page 3 of Lethal Weakness

I hesitate with the box that’s in my hands because I don’t know this man. I rest it against the lip of the trunk before turning to face my new neighbor, but I don’t loosen my grip on it.

A heavy cardboard box is more of a weapon than nothing.

“I am,” I answer before fully looking at him. And, when I do, I’m glad, because I think I’m rendered speechless.

Even without the shadows of his truck surrounding him, he’s as brooding as I thought. The brow that I suspected was furrowed earlier definitely is, and he’s looking at me like I’m trespassing.

I’m not, but for some reason I have the urge to apologize for being here anyway.

He’s clean-shaven despite wearing dirty work pants and an old T-shirt. His hat has definitely seen better days, but his hair looks clean. It’s dark and long enough to be tucked behind his ears.

“The owner of this house said he was letting it go to the bank,” he says stiffly, his chiseled jaw barely moving as if he was reluctant to use it.

He can’t be that much older than me, and yet he seems like he’s lived on earth a lot longer than I have. Seen a lot more.

But that’s probably the case for most people who aren’t trapped in one box after another.

“Hoping you’d get more peace and quiet with a vacant lot next door?” I guess, trying to ease the tension that seems to be building across the fence line.

“Something like that,” he answers after a brief awkward silence.

Despite my desire to keep my island isolated, speaking when spoken to is a survival tactic. And being polite might be my only way to avoid hostility in our new home.

“It wasn’t listed on any rental sites, but I found an old ad on Craigslist that the owner forgot to take down. I begged him to let us move in, but don’t worry, we won’t bother you.”

He grunts, “Unlikely,” as he turns away, walking back towards his truck that looks like it could be someone’s grandfather’s. It’s old and rusty, with a bulky bed topper that has those narrow windows on the sides that seem unnecessary.

His house is nearly a mirror image of mine. Cracker box house. Shitty driveway that runs along this mangled fence, except he has a garage attached to his house.

Seems fitting because he also has two more vehicles besides the truck he is working on, and they look like the definition of fixer-uppers. His yard isn’t trashed, but it isn’t well kept. His house’s exterior is in about the same shape as mine.

A low-income neighborhood doesn’t bother me when I grew up in poverty. Having people near me who hate me is what I’m not a fan of. It’s exactly what I’m running from.

* * *

The two big windows in the kitchen are also a small perk of my new little home. One that shows the backyard, where I can watch Avery play if I ever get brave enough to let her play without me hovering over her. And the other lets in so much natural light throughout the day; its rays are doing wonders to keep my depression at bay.

Darkness can’t hit you if you keep moving in the light.

I spent the first few days here cleaning every corner and crevice in this place. It might not be luxurious, but it’ll be clean every inch where my daughter plays. Eats. Sleeps.

The small bedroom is filled with her toys and the new, very old, TV that plays VHS tapes I scored at a garage sale. I got her eight seasons of Barney for a whopping four dollars.

It’s been the highlight of my week.

Aside from Avery being such a trooper. She has adjusted well to our new living situation, and I am so proud of her.

I struggle every minute, wondering if I’m doing my absolute best for her, but she is such a happy girl, and I know deep down she is a reflection of what I’m pouring into her. Even when I feel like I have nothing left to give.

“Mommy, I help?” Avery asks as she pushes one of the kitchen chairs to the sink, where I’m washing dishes.

“Sure, I’d love help.” I smile when she sticks her hands into the soap bubbling up in the sink.

She spends more time playing with the suds in the water than she does helping me wash the dishes, but I don’t mind.

I enjoy the simplicity of the music playing out of my trusty Bluetooth speaker in a home that’s safe. And not feeling the urge to look over my shoulder. This new chapter is all about keeping joy in our hearts. Especially hers.

“Mommy, what you looking at?”