While I was in labor, my mother tried to sign my house over to my sister. By the time I came home with my newborn, they had already moved in and told me, “You’ll never afford to get it back.” I let them believe that. Then the eviction notices arrived with my name on the papers — and suddenly, the house they thought they had stolen wasn’t theirs anymore.
The first contraction hit at 3:47 on a Tuesday morning, sharp enough to pull me upright in bed with one hand pressed against the wall and the other clutched around the edge of my old quilt. For a few seconds, I did not move. I sat there in the dark of my little Craftsman house,…
