Nora appeared beside her brother, arms crossed in that no-nonsense stance she’d somehow perfected at age eight. “We can’t not have a washing machine, Dad.”
“I know,” I said.
Hazel joined her siblings, hugging her stuffed rabbit tightly against her chest. Her voice was small and worried. “Are we poor?”
The question hit harder than it should have. I knelt down to her level, trying to find the right words—honest but not scary.
“We’re resourceful,” I finally said. “That’s different.”
But the truth was more complicated. We weren’t poverty-stricken in the absolute sense. I had a job doing data entry for a medical supply company. It paid enough to cover rent, utilities, and food. We weren’t starving or homeless.
But we also didn’t have room for emergencies. No savings account to speak of. No buffer when appliances died or cars needed repairs or kids needed new shoes because they’d outgrown the old ones.
We definitely didn’t have “new washing machine” money. Not even close.
That weekend, I loaded all three kids into our beat-up sedan and drove to a thrift store on the edge of town that I’d heard sometimes sold used appliances.
The place smelled like dust and old fabric. Milo complained immediately about the weird smell. Hazel stayed close to my side, nervous about the unfamiliar environment. Nora wandered off to look at the books, which was her default whenever we went anywhere.
I found an employee and asked about washing machines.
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