To feed oneself alone is not to live

It was a June afternoon, the day before my daughter's first birthday. I sat on the shelter's battered love couch with an old digital camera to capture her first steps. Mia was trying to curl her toes and keep her balance. She had curly hair and a pinstriped one-piece, but her brown eyes were determined. Through the lens, I could clearly see the creases of her ankles, her fleshy thighs, and her chubby belly. She came prattering toward me, her bare feet on the tile floor. Years of grime were deeply embedded in the cracks in the ground. I tried my best to scrub, but I couldn't clean it.

The Housing authority had assigned a cabin on the north side of town to homeless people like us. People could stay in it for 90 days, and now we were down to our last week. Next thing we knew, we were moving to transitional housing -- temporary housing in a dilapidated apartment building with a concrete floor. But even temporarily, I did my best to make it a home for my daughter. I put a yellow sheet on the loin-love sofa, not only to add warmth to the pale walls and dusty floor, but also to add some light and joy to this dark hour.

On the wall near the front door, I kept a small calendar filled with appointments with social workers whose organizations I could call for help. I looked everywhere, peered through the Windows of every subsidized housing, and stood in long lines with people with messy papers proving they were penniless. I was bombarded with things to prove how poor I was.

We're not really allowed to receive visitors here. We have a bag of luggage. Mia has a small basket of toys. A small stack of books stood on a shelf that separated the living area from the kitchen. I fixed a round table to Mia's high chair. There was also a chair on which I used to sit while watching my daughter eat and drinking coffee to counteract my hunger.

I watched Mia take her first steps, trying not to look at the green box behind her. It contained legal documents from my custody battle with her father. I forced myself to lock my eyes on Mia, smile at her, and show that everything was okay. If I turn the camera, I might not even recognize myself. In the few photos I have of myself, I look like a different person, perhaps the skinniest I've ever looked. I had a part-time job as a landscape gardener and spent hours each week pruning shrubs, clearing away overgrown blackberry bushes and picking off tiny, redundant blades of grass, one by one. Friends who heard I was in need of money sometimes asked me to clean floors and toilets in the homes of people they knew. These friends weren't rich, but at least they had something, which I didn't. For them, the loss of a job may mean hardship without ending up in an asylum. They also have family and relatives who can pay to save them from misfortune. But there is no one to help us. I'm on my own with Mia.

There was a question on the housing registry asking me what my personal goals were for the next few months. I wrote that I would try to work with Mia's father, Jamie. I thought if I gave it my best shot, we could pull through. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if we were a real family -- a mother, a father, a lovely daughter. I clutched these daydreams in my hand like a giant balloon tied to the end of a string. This balloon will take me away from the abuse That Jamie has inflicted on me, and the misery of being a single parent on my own. Just hold on to this thin rope, and I can float high in the air, far away from it all. If I can focus on this ideal family portrait, I can treat the bad parts as fake; As if such days were a temporary state of affairs rather than a new reality.

Mia received a new pair of shoes as a present on her birthday. I saved up for a month for this. The little brown shoes were embroidered with pink and blue birds. I sent Jamie an invitation to a party like a normal mother, as if we were a normal divorced couple raising children together. We celebrated our daughter's birthday with a picnic on a grassy hillside overlooking the ocean at Chesmoka Park in Port Townsend, where we lived in Washington State. People brought blankets and sat on them laughing. I brought lemonade and muffin, which I exchanged for the rest of the month's food stamps. My father and grandfather traveled two hours from across town to attend the party. My brother and some friends also came. Someone else brought a guitar. I asked a friend to take a picture of Mia, Jamie and me. It's hard to get the three of us sitting together like this. I wanted mia to have some good memories to look back on. But in the photo, Jamie's face is cold and angry.

My mother and her husband William flew all the way from London. Or from France, or wherever they were living. The day after Mia's birthday, they stopped by our place -- breaking the shelter's "no visitors" policy -- to help me move into the transition. I shook my head when I saw how they dressed -- Willem in skinny black jeans, a black sweater, and black boots; My mother wore a black and white striped dress with her butt wrapped tightly, black leggings and low-top Converse shoes. Look at them dressed like they're going for a cup of espresso, not moving house. As I had never shown my apartment to anyone before, it looked even more scruffy after these two European-dressed men with British accents barged into the cottage.

William seemed surprised to see that we had moved with only one duffel bag. He carried the bag outside and his mother followed. As I turned to take one last look at the tile floor, I could see myself reading a book on the love couch, Mia rummaging through a basket for a toy, and her sitting on the built-in drawer of the double bed. I'm just glad we're finally getting out of here. This brief moment made me examine how I had survived. Once again I bid a bittersweet farewell to the beginning of our misery.

The new apartment building is called the Northwest Passage Transition Family Housing Project. Half the residents, like me, had moved from the shelter, and the other half were fresh out of prison. It's a step up from the shelter, but it also loses the privacy that comes with the cabin. Here, in this building, I feel like my true self is being revealed to everyone, including myself.

My mother and William followed me, waiting for me to walk through the door of our new home. I turned the key and put the box down again, in order to unlock it with more force. Finally, we managed to get into the house. "Well, at least this lock holds." "William quipped.

We walked through the narrow porch. The front door faces the bathroom, and I just noticed the bathtub where Mia and I could sit and shower together. We haven't had the luxury of a bath in a long time. Two bedrooms are on the right, each with a window facing the road. The kitchen is small, and the refrigerator door scratches the opposite cupboard when it opens. I walk on the kitchen floor, which is covered in large white tiles, much like the floor of our former shelter. Then I opened a door to the roof just wide enough for me to sit in front and stretch my legs.

Julie, my social worker, had given me a brief tour of the place two weeks earlier. The previous family had lived in the apartment for 24 months, the maximum allowed. "You're lucky. This place just happened to be free." "Your shelter just expired."

When I first met Julie, I sat across from her and faltering answers to questions about what my plans were, how I was going to house my children, my path to financial stability, what career I could pursue. Julie seemed to understand my confusion and gave me some advice on how to move on. Moving into affordable housing seemed to be my only option. The trouble is how to find a vacant room. Lawyers at the DOMESTIC Violence and Sexual Assault Protection Center maintain a shelter for victims who have nowhere to go, and fortunately, the housing authority provided me with a private space and a way to settle down.

At our first meeting, Julie read through the four-page brief, and I had to agree to the terms before I could move in.

Jolie reiterated that they do spot checks to make sure basic chores are done, such as washing dishes, clearing food off the counter and keeping floors clean. I reconfirmed my agreement to these terms, which included random urine tests, home tests, and a curfew after 10:00; Visitors shall not stay overnight or stay for more than three days without prior consent; All changes in income must be reported promptly; A monthly statement should be submitted with details of how the money was booked, spent and why.

Julie's manner was always cordial and she smiled when she spoke. I was relieved to find that her face did not have the long, impatient look of other social workers in government offices. She treated me like a human being. She would pin her short reddish brown hair behind her ears as she spoke. My mind gave a jolt when she said I was "lucky." I don't think I'm lucky. Actually, I am grateful. But I'm not "lucky." I was moving to a place where the rules pointed to "I could be a drug addict who was so dirty and debased that he turned his life into a mess and needed curfews and urine tests."

Penniless and destitute, it all seemed like a reprieve -- a conviction for want of a way to live.

Willem, my mother, and I moved things slowly from the small pickup truck I had borrowed to the landing that led to our second-floor apartment. Before moving into the shelter, my father had secured a storage unit for me, and now we were getting everything out of it. Mom and William were overdressed, so I gave them two T-shirts, but they didn't take them. As long as I can remember, my mother has always been fat. She only lost weight when she divorced my father. She credits the Atkins diet for her weight loss success. But dad later found out that her sudden rush to the gym wasn't about getting in shape, it was about having an affair. She developed a new desire to escape the shackles of being a wife and a mother. Mom's transformation was an announcement, an awakening, that she had sacrificed the life she had always wanted for her family. It was as if she had suddenly become a stranger to me.

That spring, Tyler graduated from high school and their parents divorced. Mom moved into an apartment. That Thanksgiving, mom lost a lot of weight and grew her hair longer. We walked into a bar together and I saw her kiss a man my age and disappear into the booth. I felt embarrassed, but then the feeling turned into a sense of loss without sorrow. I want my mother back.

Dad also started a new family after a while. After the divorce, he ended up with a jealous woman with three sons. That woman doesn't like me around. "Take care of yourself." Dad said to me one day after breakfast at Dennis's near their house.

My parents both looked ahead and left me alone, regardless of my feelings. I promise I will never do what they did, leave Mia, distance myself from Mia.

I looked at my mother now, married to an English man only seven years older than me. Her figure was like a balloon blown up, so fat that I could not recognize her, I felt that she was tired by this pair of heavy body. I couldn't help staring at her as she stood next to me with a strong British accent. She moved to Europe seven years ago, but I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen her.

In the middle of moving books, she suggested a hamburger. "Another beer." "She added, as we passed each other on the stairs. It's almost noon, but she's still on vacation, which means she's gonna have to start drinking earlier. She suggested we go to the Sirens, a downtown bar with outdoor seating. My mouth immediately gushed with saliva. I haven't eaten out in months. "I have to go to work after moving, but I can join you for dinner." I said. I got a job at a friend's kindergarten cleaning once a week for $45. I have to return the pickup, and I have to pick up Mia from Jamie's.

That day, mom also cleaned out some of her own big boxes -- old photos and gadgets she kept in friends' garages. She took them to my new home as gifts. I accepted them with great nostalgia as a reminder of our previous life together. She kept every graduation picture, every Halloween picture. There are pictures of my first fish catch, and of me holding a bouquet of flowers after the school musical. My mother was in the audience cheering me on, smiling and holding up her camera. Now, in this apartment, she just sees me as another adult in the room, someone just like her. And THERE I stood, feeling more lost than EVER. I need my family. I need them to nod and smile in front of me and encourage me and tell me everything is going to be ok.

I sat on the floor near my mother while Willem went upstairs to use the bathroom. "Hi!" I said.

"What's the matter? 'she asked, as if I were going to ask for something. I always thought she was afraid I'd ask her for money, but I never did. She and William lived modestly in Europe, renting out William's London flat and living in a small house not far from Bordeaux, France, which they were in the process of converting into a bed and breakfast.

"I was wondering if we could spend some time together?" I asked. "Just the two of us."

"Stephanie, I don't think that's the right thing to do."

"Why?" I asked, straightening my back.

"I mean, if you want to spend time with me, you have to have Willem there." She replied.

At this point, Willem came over to us. He was blowing his nose vigorously with a handkerchief. She took his hand, looked at me, and raised her eyebrows as if she were proud of her ability to draw boundaries.

It's no secret that I don't like William. When I visited them in France a few years ago, William and I had a heated argument that made Mom cry in her car. On this visit, I hoped to repair my broken relationship with my mother. It wasn't just looking for someone to help me care for Mia. I also longed for a mother, someone I could trust, someone who would accept me unconditionally -- even though I was now living in a shelter. If I had a mom that I could talk to, maybe she could talk to me about what I was going through, or maybe she could make me feel better, open me up, make me realize that I'm not a failure. How hard it was to fight for my mother's attention when I was so desperate. So every time William tells a joke, I laugh. I laughed when he made fun of American grammar. Nor did I comment on my mother's adopted accent or her patronizing manner. She looked as if grandma had never mixed her salad with canned fruit and margarine.

Mom and Dad grew up in two different parts of Skagit County. An hour north of Seattle, this area is famous for its tulip fields. Both of their families have lived through generations of poverty. Baba's family was rooted deep in the mountains of Clear Lake, and it was said that his distant relatives were still making moonshine, just as they had for decades. My mother lived in a valley where farmers grew beans and spinach for a living.

Grandma and Grandpa have been married for almost 40 years. My earliest memory of them is the trailer by the creek by the woods, which they made their home. I stayed with my parents while they worked during the day. Grandpa would make us a sandwich with mayonnaise and butter on miracle sliced bread for lunch. They didn't have much money, but my memory of grandpa was always loving and caring. Grandma would stir Campbell's canned tomato soup on the stove and stand with a can of soda in her hand, one leg propped up and the other folded high, legs stretched like flamingos. There is always a cigarette burning in an ashtray not far away.

Then they moved to a house in downtown Anacortes that had been neglected for years and was almost uninhabitable. My grandfather was a real estate agent, running all kinds of model homes. Sometimes he would rush in with toys and give them to me. Some he found, some he won in a claw machine at a bowling alley.

When I was younger, if I wasn't staying at their house, I would call my grandmother. I call them all the time. There were several other pictures of me, aged four or five, standing in the kitchen talking on a big yellow receiver.

Later, Nana developed paranoid schizophrenia, which for years made it almost impossible for her to have a normal conversation with us. She became delusional. The last time Mia and I visited, I brought her a box of Papa Murphy's pizza, which I had traded for food stamps. For most of our visit, my grandmother, wearing heavy black eyeliner and phosphor lipstick, stood outside smoking. We had to wait until Grandpa got home to eat. When grandpa arrived, grandma said she wasn't hungry, accused him of cheating on her, and even said he was flirting with me.

In any case, Anacortes kept my childhood memories. Despite my diminishing contact with my family, I often talked to Mia about Bowman Bay, the bay that separates Fidalgo Island from Whidbey Island, just below the Strait of Deception. My dad took me hiking there when I was a kid. This little place in Washington state, with its towering Holly and berry-cuckoo trees, was the only place I felt at home. I've explored every nook and cranny of it, knowing every path, every little change in the currents. I once carved my initials into the orange-red trunk of a rhododendron berry tree, which I can still spot at a glance. Whenever I go back to Anacortes to visit my family, I walk on the beach under the Deception Channel Bridge, along Rosario Road, past the big house on the cliff, all the way home.

I miss my family. No matter where my mother was in Europe, she still called my grandmother once a week. It was comforting, as if I hadn't lost my mother completely. At least she still had something to say to those she'd left behind.

At the Sirens, when the lunch bill arrived, Mother ordered another beer. I looked at the time, and I had to give myself at least two hours to clean the kindergarten before I picked up Mia. After 15 minutes of watching my mother and Willem giggle about their French neighbors, I finally tell them IT's time to go.

"Oh," Willem said, raising his eyebrows. "Do you want me to get the waiter to pay for you?"

I looked at him. "No." I said. We stared at each other, deadlocked. "I have no money to pay the bill."

I should have bought them lunch. They came to see me and helped me move, but they were my parents. I wanted to remind him that he had just helped me move out of a shelter, but I didn't answer. I looked at my mother pleadingly. "I'll put the beer on my credit card." "She suggested.

"I only have $10 in my account." I said. My voice became more choked. "Then you can't even afford your own hamburger." "Willem blurted out. He's right. My burger is $10.59. I ordered a meal that was only 28 cents less than what I had in my bank account. I felt a surge of shame. The day I finally moved out of the shelter, the joy vanished. I can't even afford a fucking burger.

I looked from my mother to Willem, then made an excuse to use the bathroom. I'm not taking a piss. I just want to cry.

I looked skinny in the mirror, wearing a kid's T-shirt and skinny jeans that I had rolled up so I wouldn't know they were shorter. In the mirror was a woman who was overworked, but no one knew she was broke and couldn't afford a damn burger. I was often so stressed I couldn't eat, just watching Mia put spoonfuls of food into her mouth and congratulating her with each mouthful she took. My muscles were taut and otherwise sagging. The only thing I can do now is cry in this bathroom.

Many years ago, when I thought about my own life, I never thought that poverty would be related to my life. I had no idea I'd end up like this. And now, with a baby and a divorce, I've been slapped in the face by reality and don't even know how to get out of it.

Back at his seat, Willem was still there, his nostrils dilated like a toy fire-breathing dragon. His mother leaned against him and whispered in his ear, and he shook his head in disapproval.

"I can pay $10." I sat down and said. "All right." Mother said.

I can't accept that she agreed to my offer. It's days before I get paid. I fished for my purse, pulled out my card, and added up her money. After signing the bill, I shoved the card into my back pocket, gave her a perfunctory hug as a farewell and prepared to walk out of the restaurant. A few feet away from the table, I heard Willem say, "That's good. I've never seen anything so noble."