At Christmas, my mother pointed at the front door and screamed, “Get out with your daughter.”

The car heater rattled, blowing lukewarm air that smelled of old dust and exhaustion. As we pulled into the parking lot of our cramped, second-floor apartment, the snow began to fall harder, blurring the dim amber streetlights. My ten-dollar bill felt heavy in my pocket, a cruel reminder of how little freedom poverty actually bought.

“Mommy, I’m cold,” Emma murmured, her nose pink and her eyelids heavy as I unbuckled her from the car seat.

“I know, baby. We’re almost inside. We’ll turn on the little heater and make some hot chocolate with the marshmallows you like.”

Inside, the apartment was freezing. The landlord had promised to fix the radiator by New Year’s, but until then, we relied on a sputtering electric space heater that hummed like an angry hornet in the corner of the living room. I tucked Emma into her twin bed, layering every blanket we owned over her small frame. She fell asleep almost instantly, her breathing soft and even.

I sat on the edge of the mattress in the dark, staring out the cracked window at the falling snow. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a group chat notification from my family. Brooke had posted a video of the Christmas dinner table, complete with captions mocking my old coat and my silence. Some people just can’t hack adult life, she wrote.

My mother had liked the post.

A hot, bitter tear slipped down my cheek, but I wiped it away fiercely. Crying didn’t pay the electric bill. Pity didn’t buy groceries. I stood up, walked to the tiny kitchenette, and opened the pantry. A single can of soup and half a sleeve of saltine crackers stared back at me.

I pulled out my notebook—a cheap composition book with frayed edges—and flipped to the back pages. For months, I had been sketching designs during my slow hours at the pharmacy night shift. I loved restoring old furniture, finding discarded wooden chairs and tables by the dumpsters, sanding away the neglect, and sealing them with warm, honey-toned lacquer. People called it trash; I saw potential.

I looked down at my hands, rough from cleaning chemicals and winter dry air.