I ducked into my car in the parking garage and completely lost my composure.
The meltdown started as angry tears and escalated into full-body sobs that made my carefully applied makeup run in dramatic streaks down my cheeks. I sat in my old Honda Civic and let myself fall apart completely.
"Fuck," I said to my steering wheel, which was about as eloquent as I could manage while processing the comprehensive disaster my life had become. "Fuck, fuck,fuck."
If ever I needed a Christmas miracle, now was the time.
The crying episode lasted approximately fifteen minutes and included several choice observations about Derek's character, Patricia's corporate cruelty, and my own stupidity for trusting someone who'd turned out to be a lying, stealing piece of shit who'd left me broke and homeless right before Christmas.
But here's the thing about being a curvy woman who'd spent her entire life learning to advocate for herself: even in complete crisis mode, I still looked good crying. I’d perfected it.
Not that looking good while crying was particularly useful when you were facing homelessness and unemployment, but at least I had that going for me.
Right?
When the tears finally stopped, I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror and made a decision that was equal parts desperation and strategy. My apartment was already packed—I'd been preparing for the eviction all week, hoping against hope that some miracle—that would be to say a Christmas bonus from work which was the rumor floating around—would materialize to save me from having to admit complete life failure to my parents.
Time to call in the miracle myself.
I scrolled to Mom's contact and hit call before I could lose my nerve or start crying again.
"Holly! What a lovely surprise. I was just telling your father that we haven't heard from you this week, and you know how he worries?—"
"Mom, I got fired today." The words tumbled out before I could soften them with euphemisms or corporate-speak explanations. "And I'm getting evicted. And I need to come home."
The silence on the other end of the line lasted approximately five seconds, which felt like five hours when you were sitting in a parking garage having just blurted out complete life failure to your mother.
"Oh, honey. What happened?"
I gave her the abbreviated version while sitting in my car trying not to start crying again. Corporate restructuring, budget cuts, Derek's financial betrayal that had left me completelybroke and unable to make rent. The whole pathetic story of how someone with a good job and nice apartment had ended up homeless and unemployed three fucking weeks before Christmas.
"That son of a bitch," my mother said with unusual profanity that made it clear she understood exactly who was responsible for my financial situation. "Holly, sweetie, Derek didn't just break up with you—he committed theft. You should press charges."
"I should do a lot of things," I said wearily, because legal action required time and money I didn't have. "Right now, I just need to get out of the city while I figure out what comes next."Where comes next.Chicago had been my home for a while now. I was used to it. I had friends here, admittedly, I hadn’t seen or spoken to them since Derek decided he hated them, and I’d decided I’d rather spend time with him than going out to bars with them. Was that all part of his master plan? To isolate me and then steal from me, leaving me with nothing and no one? I wouldn’t put it past him right now.
"Of course you can come home," Mom said immediately, her voice taking on the kind of maternal efficiency that suggested she was already mentally preparing my childhood bedroom. "Your room is exactly as you left it. Your father will be so excited—you know how he misses having his girl around."
His girl.As if I wasn't a grown woman who'd been living independently for a decade, paying my own bills and making my own decisions and generally adulting with reasonable success until Derek had systematically destroyed my financial stability while I'd been naive enough to trust him.
But right now, being someone's girl sounded infinitely better than being a jobless adult with nowhere to live and no money to fall back on.
"I’ll set off tomorrow, early morning," I said, doing mental calculations about gas money and drive time. It's about sixteen hours if I leave early and drive straight through. It’s lunch time now, so if I can get back to my apartment, pack up the rest of my shit, load it into my car, eat my weight in Thai food and sleep for a few hours, the 3 AM start might not sound so bad.
"Don't you dare drive sixteen hours straight," Mom said with immediate maternal alarm. "Holly, that's dangerous. Stop halfway, get a hotel room, drive safely."
"Mom, I just want to come home. I’ll be fine. I’ll stop and rest and have a pee break and food, okay?" I said quietly, knowing I can’t afford a fucking hotel room, because admitting the extent of my financial devastation was humiliating even to the woman who'd given birth to me.
“Holly, just be safe, okay. This isn't the end of the world. It's just a detour."
A detour.Right. A detour that led straight back to my childhood bedroom with the Jonas Brothers poster I'd never taken down and the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling that teenage me had thought were sophisticated interior design.
After hanging up, I sat in my car for another few minutes, processing the reality that I was about to drive cross-country to move back in with my parents because my life had imploded so completely that I had no other options.
"A detour," I told my reflection in the rearview mirror. "A detour back to Vermont where everyone will know you as Matt's fat little sister who used to have opinions about everything and apparently still can't manage her own life."
My reflection didn't argue, which was probably for the best.
The drive back to my apartment took exactly twelve minutes and involved more Christmas decorations mocking my misery from every street corner. Chicago in December was beautiful when you had money and job security and holiday plans. Whenyou were unemployed and homeless, all that festive cheer felt like salt in an open wound.
