She left her disabled son with me and vanished. I thought I’d never see her again — until the day she knocked on my door with a lawyer and a plan I never saw coming.
My name’s Amy. I’m 37 now, but back then, I was 27, burnt out, broke, and barely keeping it together in a shoebox apartment in Queens.
I worked two jobs, waitressing in the mornings at a diner and pulling evening shifts at a bookstore. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid just enough to keep the lights on and my fridge semi-stocked with yogurt cups and instant noodles.
A person holding a bowl of noodles | Source: Pexels