“It’s a walk-in,” I said, my voice tight, trying to mask the rising panic. “We converted it. It’s draft-free and close to our rooms.”
I led her to the nursery. Chloe was sitting in a rocking chair we had found on the side of the road and sanitized. She was feeding Lily a bottle, her face pale but determined. Ms. Higgins inspected the sleeping space, checked the temperature of the room, and demanded to see our supply of formula and diapers. She grilled Chloe on her medical aftercare and questioned me extensively about our household income.
I showed her my pay stubs from the diner and the cleaning company. I showed her Ethan’s pay stubs. I laid our poverty bare on the kitchen table, a humiliating display of our desperate survival.
“It’s tight, Mrs. Miller,” Ms. Higgins said finally, adjusting her glasses. “Financially, this is a highly precarious situation for a premature infant with potential respiratory issues.”
