It was a cold, gray morning when nine-year-old Laura’s world quietly shifted.
Clutching her mother Lucy’s hand, she stood silently as the landlord turned the key on their apartment for the final time. Their few possessions now sat beside them on the curb—everything they had left after falling behind on rent.
Lucy had weathered many storms. Once an aspiring hairdresser with dreams of owning her own salon, she had watched it all unravel after the unexpected death of Laura’s father. Overwhelmed by grief, Lucy lost her footing—jobs came and went, and eventually, so did their home.
With no place left to turn, the pair began living on the streets. Some nights were spent in noisy shelters, others huddled on park benches or beneath highway overpasses. Still, Lucy refused to give up. She found strength in support groups and picked up part-time cleaning work at a nearby church—doing whatever she could to rebuild. Laura, wise beyond her years, never complained. She helped in small ways, always wearing a brave smile.
On one brisk morning, as they walked near the train station toward St. Mark’s Church for a warm breakfast, something caught Laura’s eye—half-hidden under damp leaves lay a worn leather wallet.
