I tried explaining to the welfare office that I was working to survive and after all was spent on rent and diapers there was nothing left for food. The employee’s eyes rolled over my Kate Spade bag and back to her computer screen.
“Hol’ on,” she said as her acrylic nails cut into the keyboard.
The baby was lying against my chest and the tapping sound started to put her to sleep. Her fat toes and chocolate legs dangled out from a yellow dress. She was the only light in the dull office. She often falls asleep to keystrokes all the nights I have stayed awake next to her in bed, fixing one of my essays to send to an editor. An essay I wrote over a year ago before I was a mother and a domestic violence survivor. Before I needed an attorney or food stamps. Back when writing was religion.
