Some days blur together when survival is all you can manage. But every once in a while, something cuts through the noise and etches itself into your memory forever. For me, it all began with a walk in the park and a blind man’s sign.
My name is Jenny. I’m 36 years old, and for the past three years, I’ve been raising my kids on my own.
That sentence never comes easily. Even now, saying it out loud feels like it knocks the breath out of me. It’s like admitting to something that should never have happened. But it did. My husband, Matt, died in a car accident three years ago this November. One rainy evening, one phone call—and my entire world shattered like glass.
Since then, it’s been just me and our children, Adam and Alice. Adam is eight, sharp as a tack, always asking questions I can’t fully answer. Alice is six, tenderhearted and free-spirited, always clinging to my hand as if she knows I need the comfort more than she does.
We rent a small two-bedroom upstairs in an old duplex. The walls are thin, the floors creak, our downstairs neighbor smokes too much, and the radiator knocks in the night. But the roof doesn’t leak, and it’s warm in the winter—that’s more than some people can say.
After Matt’s death, I had to figure out how to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads on a single paycheck. I work part-time at the library and pick up freelance transcription late at night after the kids are asleep. It isn’t glamorous, but it sustains us. Rent, groceries, school supplies, and shoes require constant planning.
