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Murphy’s Law
Natalie
“Mommy, we’re out of milk!”
I looked up from my plate and smiled. “Are we?”
“Yeah! How am I gonna eat my cereal?”
I crossed my arms and shook my head. “That’s quite the situation you’re in.”
“You’re telling me!”
We both laughed. This was a ritual of ours, the back-and-forth. I always appreciated her willingness to see the joy in it, to cut me some slack. Whether it was milk, fruit snacks, or even a pair of shoes, she never seemed to begrudge me my financial shortcomings, or resent me for the things I couldn’t provide. It was all smiles with her.
Sophie was just over four years old, and although she’d been a relatively easy child—the so-called “terrible twos” never materializing—even the easiest of children cost a pretty penny. Ever since moving out of my parents’ house, which was in itself a great source of financial strain, it felt as though I, and only I, had my own back. Not that my parents had kicked me out—on the contrary, they had insisted I stay a year or two longer, at least until Sophie could be enrolled in school. But there was something about leaving that struck me as essential; my remaining there would no doubt invite unfavorable comparisons between myself and my brother, who had found a spouse and moved into a place of his own, both at a younger age than I. And so, with only this conviction, and just enough funds to back it up, I took Sophie and moved into a one-bedroom apartment, just after her third birthday.
For a period, I experienced a state of being that one could only describe as magical. I was a woman, on my own for the first time, with a beautiful and healthy daughter whom I loved and more importantly, who loved me. I would go to work at the gallery, which was a twenty-five-minute walk from my apartment, and as I would walk home in the evenings I would contemplate the golden hues that reflected off the local storefronts, bathing me in their warmth, and consider myself happy, and my life a success.
But then things got difficult. A few months after moving, Sophie developed a severe ear infection—as she didn’t have health insurance, I’d had to pay a couple thousand dollars out of pocket, nearly all my savings. But even when she was in perfect health, the costs had a way of accumulating. She was constantly growing, needing entirely new clothes and shoes almost every six months; this was especially expensive in the bitter Minnesota winters, when sweaters and gloves would not suffice, and scarves, boots, and windbreakers had to be secured. By the time her fourth birthday came around, I had come to realize working at the gallery was no longer feasible. I made just enough to cover rent and groceries—as the first year of independent living had taught me, there were far more expenses my budget needed to account for. And so, after requesting and being denied a raise, I resigned from that position.
My college education had served me well for the art world—for the other worlds, not so much. I applied to various local positions—though I had no car, and public transit was unreliable—and what came of this was a series of part-time jobs: waitressing, dog walking, hospital receptionist, you name it. I even worked at a dog grooming company for a week, before the owner realized just how much I’d embellished my qualifications.
Gradually this began to take a toll on me. Some nights I would come home so late Sophie was already fast asleep, or so exhausted I had enough energy only to tuck her in before going to bed myself. And yet, despite the exhaustion, there was little to show for it. Still I had no savings, and although I could make rent and keep Sophie in decent quality clothing, there was incessant anxiety around every corner, the thought of Sophie falling ill and me needing to take her to a doctor, or needing me to provide her with something I couldn’t afford, and resenting me when she discovered that despite my best efforts what I could offer was not enough, would never be enough.
But there was seldom any benefit to this sort of catastrophic thinking. We were in the moment, and we had each other, and that had to be enough. And so, on that morning with my daughter and her dry cereal, a thought occurred to me; I would leave work early, and Sophie and I could go to the grocery store together. It wasn’t much, but it was something, an opportunity to spend time with her instead of slaving away through her childhood, looking back not on fond memories but regret.
“We’ll go to the store later, how does that sound?” I asked her, and she giggled.
“Yes, Mommy!” she said, and ran up to give me a hug.
I held her tight. She smelled so fresh and gentle, like something too pure for this world, and for a moment I remembered that everything I did (and, by extension, everything I didn’t, or couldn’t) was worth it, so long as it kept her happy and safe.
But our embrace was interrupted by an agitated knock on the door. I stood up, seized by anxiety.
I knew I forgot something this month…
“Coming!” I called. Even before I opened the door, I knew who it would be—the landlord. Rent was overdue.
I opened it; there he stood, his face all mustache.
“Hello, Derek!” I said, before he could open his mouth to speak. “I know what you’re going to say—I got caught up in doing my taxes and forgot to drop off the rent check.”
Derek exhaled deeply, as if he had heard this excuse on multiple occasions. “Natalie…” he began. “You know, this isn’t the first time.”
“But you know I always—”
“—and,” he continued, “you’re still short on last month’s rent.”
I gulped.Shit, he still remembers that…“I just… there was a problem in accounting last week, but after I get my paycheck next week I can—”
“Natalie! Please.” He put a hand up. “No need. Look, I can appreciate your… situation. Single mom and all. But this is a business, a transaction, and frankly…” he exhaled again, then continued, “...you haven’t been holding up your end of the bargain.” He paused, waiting for me to say something, but words failed me just then. And so he finished, “Natalie… if you can give me the $2,000 you owe—the $1,300 for this month and the $700 remainder from last month—then we can keep trying to make this work. Otherwise…”
I gulped. “I… don’t have $2,000.” My voice was trembling, my hands shaking.
Derek looked down. “I was afraid you’d say that. Well then… I’m afraid I’ll have to evict you. Consider this your two weeks’ notice.” He looked at me expectantly, but I made no effort to respond; I was stunned. “I’m sorry, Natalie… from the bottom of my heart.”
Then he turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the doorway.
