We’ve been homeless for six weeks. After I lost my job when the plant shut down, everything unraveled—eviction, nights in motels, then the streets. The hardest part hasn’t been the cold or the stares—it’s explaining to my kids why their friends stopped coming, why dinner is just half a granola bar, why their shoes don’t fit anymore.
My daughter, Savannah, is only seven, but she makes sure our puppy Clover—who found us behind a dumpster—always eats first and stays warm in her hoodie, even when she’s cold herself. My son, Liam, barely speaks now but still laughs when the puppy sneezes.
One day, a woman noticed us. She knelt to pet Clover and gave me a card: Family Transition Advocate. I didn’t know if it was real help, but I followed the address.
Inside a small office, Ms. Delgado greeted us kindly. She connected us to a shelter with real beds and told me about a job at the textile mill reopening soon. Read more below
