I lived out of motels on better nights, and in the bus bay restroom other nights, for almost two weeks. I only had the one carryon, and from it I was able to maintain a sort of comely appearance. I didn’t look homeless yet, but it was only a matter of time before the clothes would become worn and tattered and I would look like every other beggar.

Jobs weren’t easy to come by. I had checked with every diner, hotel, motel, travel agency, and even garbage collection facilities in a five-mile radius. No one was hiring. And I only had—I paused to check my small purse—a few dollars short of a thousand. That wouldn’t last long.

My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. I flattened my palms against the rumbling and squirmed as the cold concrete pressed hard into my skin and rendered me temporarily incapable of standing. I shuffled on the seating, working the kinks and cramps out of my ass, and stood slowly. I was in such a sorry state, my mind drifting to imagined better places that made this present moment a little more bearable, that I hadn’t realized I had forgotten to eat. My stomach rumbled again, and the lady next to me looked over and smiled.

“Got quite a mouth on it, don’t it?” she asked in an unfamiliar accent.

“Yeah, I need to fill her up,” I replied, trying to make light of a dismal situation.

I moved away quickly and walked in the direction of the diner. I couldn’t afford another dinner today—I had one yesterday, so I had to settle for a hotdog sold by a mobile vendor. My stomach was appreciative and the growling subsided, but my overall situation had worsened, because for each dollar I spent, I was a dollar poorer.

I wheeled my carryon along the street, searching for help anywhere I could get it. I definitely wouldn’t go to the shelter. I couldn’t face my mother. She had warned me, and how was I supposed to tell her I was pregnant too?

The thought of the baby made me weaker. My heart pounded as adrenalin coursed through my veins. I felt flushed, and I needed to lie down before I fainted. The day was still hot, even though the sun was making its slow descent across the western sky. I walked, not knowing where I was going, until I rounded a bend and ran into a line that curved around the block.

“What’s…” I started to ask, and it hit me. It was a homeless shelter. I remained at the end of the line, hoping I could get a spot inside. Luckily, when I reached the door, a few more beds were available. I walked into the packed room, the buzzing of voices punctuated every now and again by shouting and banging.

“Hey!” a robust woman barked as she materialized before me. “Knock it off or go somewhere else!”

The banging ceased, and she grunted and turned to walk off before she saw me. She looked me up and down and raised her brow quizzically. “You’re staying here tonight?”

“Yes,” I replied hastily. “Where…is there a bed?”

She looked like she felt sorry for me, like she could see my story in my dress or my appearance. Or in my face. “Just find one,” she said and walked off, though twice she looked back before she disappeared.

I looked down and wondered what about me looked so different. I wore khaki capris, a green tank, and black loafers—all clothes I had bought while with Raymond. I looked around at the other women and children in the shelter, their faces long, tear-stained, and drained of life. The clothes were of a uniform color and texture—mostly brown, black, or grey—and the shoes consisted of flip-flops or what you might expect to find in Goodwill. I certainly looked different, and I drew the attention of some of the other women.

Just my luck, I got a bed in what looked like the center of the room. The place was deadly quiet as all eyes followed me to the bed, my carryon making the only detectable sound as it rolled along the ground. The way everyone stared at me, I was afraid to take my eyes off my luggage, so I placed it on the bed and sat with it against my back. One woman smirked, another snickered, but they went back to what they were doing before.

I barely slept that night. I was cold and alone, and I worried for my mother and Teresa. Maybe I would go by there the next day and check on them. Mom didn’t need to know that my situation had changed. I was happy when I woke and still had all my clothes on and the carryon was still there. A panic surged inside when I thought about the little cash I had, and my fingers trembled as I rummaged inside the bag. I breathed a sigh of relief when I counted and found all my money there. I’d heard rumors about shelters before—that some of the people who stayed there woke up without pieces of their clothing, or they were beaten. Sometimes, depending on the home, some people had even been molested. As I gathered my things together, I breathed a sigh of relief. But that was just for the moment. I might be back again later in the night.

I hadn’t spoken to Henrietta since I left, for the same reason I avoided my mother—shame. What would I say? The phone rang as I lifted the carryon awkwardly down the four stairs that stopped at the pavement. I tried to stand the carryon while I reached into my pocket for the phone and accidentally bumped into someone.

I jumped up and reached out, ready t0 apologize, when I recognized Davina. She had whipped around, wearing a scowl, and was obviously annoyed. “Watch it!” she spat.

I ducked and turned away quickly. “Sorry.” I remained with my back to her until I was sure she had gone. Slowly, I turned to check if she had gone and was pleased to see that, not only had she moved on, she hadn’t recognized me. I forgot about the ringing telephone until it started vibrating again. Sure enough, it was Henrietta. I had hoped it would be one of the places I’d applied to, calling me to let me know they had a vacancy.

My heart sank when I couldn’t even be happy that the only friend I had in the world was concerned about me. I had to find a way to make money, and an idea formed in my mind when I passed a row of whom I assumed to be homeless people sitting along a section of a street, holding pans and aluminum containers, their arms outstretched, with toothless smiles and heads wrapped in filthy rags, and their feet bare of shoes. I realized I was no different than they were. Some of the containers held coins, with a few holding dollar bills and scraps of food the more fortunate had to spare.

I would never have planned to panhandle, but what other option did I have? I couldn’t beg dressed as I was. Some of the other beggars held their hands out to me as I hurried by, swatting flies from the growing herd settling before them. My nose burned as the smell of urine wafted to my nostrils, and when I reached the other side of the building, I rested against it and cried. I cried for the life I almost had but would never have again. I cried for my mother, who felt shame in not being able to provide better for us. I cried for my sister, the real victim in all this madness.

My back scraped against the cold brick building as I slid downwards into a squatting position. My eyes burned as the hot liquid cascaded down my cheeks and landed on the capris I wore.

“Here, miss,” a little girl passing said as she held out her hand. She had a candy bar.

“Come along,” her mother urged and pulled her away like I was contagious.

They walked a little way, and I watched as the little girl looked back with concern etched over her cheery face. She wriggled from her mother’s hand and ran back to me.

“Don’t cry.” She cocked her head and smiled. “You can have this.” Again, she held out the candy.

I smiled and took it from her, just as her mother reached her and glowered at me like I was a pervert. “Thank you.”

“How many times must I tell you to stay away from strangers?” her mother scolded as she hurried away.

“But she was crying,” the little girl defended.

I didn’t hear their conversation as they hurried across the street, but I sat looking at the red-and-white-striped candy in my hand. I didn’t even feel the need to eat it. Instead, I held onto it like it was some life-saving force that would change the course of my life.

I remembered the child I carried, and I looked down at my abdomen. What would I do? I couldn’t keep this baby. Maybe I should tell Raymond about it. He could keep it if he wanted. It would be better than raising it on the streets when I could barely afford to buy dinner. At the very least, it was the best thing I could do for the baby. It no longer mattered how I felt about him. The love that burned inside me, that ate away at the fabric of my existence, was my burden to bear. And it weighed heavily on me, whipping my heart daily for being a fool.

Without really intending to, I became an accidental beggar. Several people offered me money or water. I sat on the carryon, and I guess looked as hopeless as I felt. By nightfall, I had gathered the courage to do what I had to for the sake of my baby. He would know his father, and I would never know him.

With the pain pressing against my chest and legs too weak to stand, I got up and walked across the street. I needed to get to him, if it was the last thing I did. He wouldn’t dare turn me away, not when I carried his child.