I was working a double shift at the nursing home—twelve hours on my feet, short-staffed again, caring for patients with kindness even when my own life was falling apart—when I came home to find my apartment door wide open,
a strange padlock on it, and my neighbor shaking her head slowly, telling me through tears that some “men with a truck” came that morning, said I’d been evicted, and emptied the whole place out, furniture, clothes,
baby pictures, even my mother’s ashes that sat in a box by the window—and I stood there, heart racing, knowing full well I’d never received a court summons, never been given a date, nothing from the sheriff, because I knew the law in Pennsylvania: landlords can’t evict without a court order, and even then, it has to go through a sheriff, not random guys with bolt cutters and a moving van—but my landlord, Mr. Parsons,
a man who never looked me in the eye unless rent was due, had taken matters into his own hands, lied to the moving company, and sold my belongings through a “storage auction” that he posted online as “abandoned property,”
pocketing the cash while leaving me homeless, broke, and humiliated; I slept in my car for two nights before I got help from a tenants’ rights nonprofit who sent a paralegal to look into my case, and when they discovered there was no eviction filing on record, that this man had fabricated the whole thing to flip the unit for a higher-paying tenant, I sued—but justice in America, especially for a Black single mom working two jobs,
moves like molasses; it took nearly eight months, court appearances, affidavits, proving what was already obvious, and meanwhile I couch-surfed, lost keepsakes, lost credit points, lost peace of mind—but when we finally won the civil suit,
when the judge read the verdict and awarded me triple damages under Pennsylvania’s illegal eviction laws, I didn’t feel victorious, just tired, because what I really wanted back wasn’t the couch or the microwave—it was the feeling of safety that home once gave me,
the quiet routine of locking the door at night and knowing I could sleep without fear—and even now, in my new apartment, when I turn the key, I still hesitate, still look around to make sure everything’s where I left it,
because once your life is stolen while you’re just trying to survive, you learn that the American dream isn’t just about owning a home—it’s about never having it ripped away by someone who thinks your struggle makes you disposable.
