I wrote down the numbers in neat columns, the way I’d learned from watching day trading tutorials on YouTube. Income. Expenses. Priorities.
First priority: Phillip’s debt.
He’d left me with $8,347 in credit card bills—charges he’d racked up in my name during the last six months of our marriage while he was planning his exit. My lawyer said I could fight it, but fighting cost money I didn’t have. So, I’d been making minimum payments and watching the interest compound like a slow-motion car crash.
I logged into the credit card portal and stared at the balance for a long moment. Then I transferred the full amount and hit submit.
The confirmation screen loaded.
Payment received. Current balance: $0.00.
I sat back in my chair and exhaled hard. Something in my chest that had been clenched tight for months finally loosened. I wasn’t carrying Phillip’s debt anymore. Wasn’t tied to him through bills and late payment notices and collection calls.
I was free.
Second priority: Mama.
She owned the house outright—had paid it off in 2014 after working doubles at the hospital for twenty years. But property taxes, insurance, utilities, and repairs added up. She’d never ask for help, but I’d seen the past-due notices stacked on the counter next to the coffee pot.
I did the math. Six months of expenses came to $4,200. I wrote a check, tucked it into an envelope, and left it on her nightstand while she was at the store.
When she found it later that evening, she came into my room without knocking.
“Baby,” she said, holding the envelope. “What is this?”
“Rent,” I said, not looking up from my laptop where I was researching used cars. “Six months in advance.”
“Truth.”
“Mama.” I turned to face her. “You let me move back in when I had nothing. You fed me. You didn’t ask questions. Let me do this.”
She stared at me for a long moment, her eyes wet. Then she nodded once, folded the envelope, and tucked it into her bra.
“You’re a good girl,” she said quietly. “Don’t let nobody tell you different.”
She left before I could respond.
Third priority: transportation.
I spent two days scrolling through Craigslist and Facebook Marketplace, looking for something reliable that wouldn’t drain my savings. I didn’t need fancy. I needed dependable. Something that would start every morning and get me where I needed to go without breaking down on the side of I-10.
I found a 2012 Honda Civic with 87,000 miles listed for $6,500. The photos showed a car that was clean but lived-in—a few scratches on the bumper, interior worn but not trashed. I called the number and arranged to meet the seller at a gas station in Metairie.
Saroya came with me because she didn’t trust Craigslist and had pepper spray in her purse.
The seller was a middle-aged white woman named Linda who worked as a nurse at Ochsner. She’d bought a new car and was selling this one to her daughter, but her daughter had just moved to Atlanta for a job.
“It’s been a good car,” Linda said, handing me the keys. “Oil changes every 3,000 miles. No accidents. Just regular wear and tear.”
I test drove it around the block. The engine was smooth, the brakes were good, and the AC worked. When I pulled back intothe gas station, Saroya was leaning against her car with her arms crossed, watching Linda like a hawk.
“How much you willing to take?” I asked.
“$6,500 is firm,” Linda said. “I know what it’s worth.”
I respected that. I pulled out my phone and transferred the money through Zelle. Linda signed over the title, shook my hand, and wished me luck.
I drove home in my own car for the first time in months. Saroya followed me the whole way, honking twice when we pulled onto my street.
