Six weeks ago, I had a steady job, a small apartment, and a life that made sense. Now, I’m on the sidewalk with my two kids—and a puppy named Hope.
It all fell apart when the restaurant I worked at closed without warning. Bills piled up, and we lost our home. I tried to stay strong for Jovi and Milo, but the weight was crushing. We ended up sleeping in our car when Milo found a puppy by a dumpster. I wanted to say no, but seeing their smiles for the first time in days—I couldn’t.
Desperate, I called my estranged sister, Renee. We hadn’t spoken since our parents’ funeral, but she answered. She let us stay.
Her home gave us warmth, but I knew it was temporary. I searched for jobs with no luck until I saw a flyer for a pet sitter. I called. The woman hired me immediately—and it gave me more than money. It gave me purpose.
One night, I thanked Renee. We apologized for the years lost. Slowly, we rebuilt our bond.
Now, we have a small apartment and a new start. Hope isn’t just our dog—it’s how we survived. And sometimes, that’s enough to begin again.
