only the things we could carry. For the next twelve months, we stayed in the car or on the couch or floor of whomever Mum was friends with at the time. Luckily Mum had a knack for making friends. “Girls, this is Nancy—we met at the hairdresser!” she’d say delightedly. A few days later, we’d be living in Nancy’s house and calling her “Auntie Nance.” A week or two after that, we would never see Nancy again—but we’d continue to see the clothes and jewelry she’d lent Mum. We always had a roof over our heads though, and Mum was very proud of that. She’d remind us of this each night before bed.
“I’m doing all this for you two, you know that, right? So you have somewhere to live. If it wasn’t for you two, I could easily find a place to live. That’s how much I love you.”
“Thank you, Mummy.”
“And who do you love?”
“You, Mummy.”
The months wore on. The library during the day, someone’s couch at night. It wasn’t all bad. There were things about the library I liked. I liked having somewhere to go every morning, so we didn’t have to make small talk over breakfast with whomever was hosting us. Even back then, I understood the shame of taking up space in someone else’s life. I liked losing myself in the nooks and crannies of the library, imagining it was my home. I liked that the library was a public space, a space where we were safe, at least for a few hours. I liked Mrs. Delahunty too, though not with the same ferocity Fern did. From time to time, while she was reading to us, I would fantasize that Mrs. Delahunty was our mother. I remember the day she read us Clifford the Big Red Dog. After she finished reading, instead of asking us about the story like she usually did, she asked us if we’d had breakfast that morning.
“Nope,” Fern said. “Two meals a day are enough for anyone; any more and you’re greedy.”
She was reciting Mum’s words, of course, verbatim. I remember stealing a glance at Mum, over by the magazines, and my stomach got a wobbly feeling.
Next, Mrs. Delahunty asked where we’d been sleeping.
“On the couch,” Fern said. There was no hint of concern on her face. I remember thinking how nice it must have been, to be so clueless. And how dangerous.
Mrs. Delahunty’s expression remained the same, but the pitch of her voice rose slightly. “Oh? Whose couch?”
Fern shrugged. “Depends whose house we are at.”
Mrs. Delahunty looked at me. I looked at my shoes.
After a while, Mrs. Delahunty got up and walked over to Mum. I buried my head in my book, too afraid to look. After a few minutes, Mum came over and told us it was time to leave.
“Who told the librarian that we were homeless?” Mum asked, after we had exited. We were on either side of her, holding on to her hands. I remember that detail, because it was unusual. Usually Mum liked Fern and me to hold hands with each other—it made passersby smile at us, and that seemed to make Mum happy.
“Who told the librarian that we were homeless?” she repeated. There was an edge to her voice, and I remember Fern starting to fidget, repeating the word “homeless” in that strange way she repeated things. We turned the corner into a quiet street and Mum asked again. Her fingernails were digging into my palm.
“Mrs. Delahunty … she asked us—” I started.
“So it was you?” Mum turned on me immediately.
I peeked at Fern. She was frightened and confused. She hadn’t told anyone we were homeless; she hadn’t used that word. She didn’t know she was the one to blame.
I nodded.
Mum let go of our hands and bent down low. “You stupid, stupid girl. That lady might seem nice, but she wants to take you away from me. Is that what you want?”
I shook my head.
“Do you want to go to a foster home, with a horrible woman who doesn’t love you? Never see me again?”
Her face was a contorted, terrifying mask of rage. Bits of spittle flew into my face.
“No!” I cried. All I wanted was to be with her. To be separated from Mum was my greatest fear. She was right. I was stupid. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mummy.”
“Let’s go home, Fern,” she said, snatching up Fern’s hand. I ran after them, grasping for Mum’s other hand, but she put it into her pocket. I