No husband.
No parents.
No family waiting.
No house with my name over the door.
Everything I owned fit inside one canvas bag.
Still, I had something many women with more money did not.
I knew I could survive.
I had been surviving since I was seventeen.
I had scrubbed boardinghouse floors until my knees bled, washed strangers’ shirts in water so cold my fingers cracked, cooked meals I was not invited to eat, and sat beside sick children while their frightened mothers slept.
My hands were broad and rough.
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