Once, life was a constant struggle. We were so broke, we survived on nothing but rice and tiny solar lights that flickered weakly in our small apartment. My husband, Eli, was barely eating — his face drawn from stress, his eyes too tired to smile. I was the one handling everything: bills, meals, trying to keep us afloat. But one day, I finally hit a breaking point.
One careless word, one moment of exhaustion, and our fragile world started to crack.
The garden lights Eli had rigged up from dollar store solar lamps cast a dull yellow glow over our dinner table. The rice and beans in our bowls looked duller in that sad light, not inviting at all. I chewed silently, swallowing without tasting.
My mind kept drifting back to the math of gas money — the $75 urgent care visit I’d scraped together earlier that month, for a painful UTI I had caught from who knows where. It had thrown our tiny budget into chaos, and every new bill felt like a weight smacking us down.
Across from me, Eli poked at his food, barely eating. His skinny frame made me worry. I glanced at him, noticing how his loose T-shirt hung on his shoulders.
“You didn’t eat lunch again, did you?” I asked softly, voice gentle but concerned.
Eli shrugged, avoiding my gaze. “Forgot. Then I wasn’t hungry,” he mumbled.
He tried to smile, but it was the kind of fake smile that quickly fades. I reached over, touching his hand.
“You need to eat,” I urged softly.
“I will. I am,” he promised, taking a slow bite. He chewed as if forcing himself, then swallowed with a visible effort, as if each gulp was a battle.
“Is the nausea bad?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Eli sighed and pushed beans around his plate. “Another bill came today. The construction guy who said he needed help with his electrician work? Turns out he’s been avoiding me every time I go to see him at the site…”
So, yeah. The nausea was bad. Stress was twisting his stomach tight. But he was eating, somehow—trying to keep himself together.
I looked over at the pile of bills near the door, a new envelope sitting on top. There was the electricity bill, due in three days; the rent, due in ten; the student loan, already fifteen days late; and now, this mysterious new bill.
My paralegal degree hung on the wall above them — a shiny piece of paper that had yet to earn its worth. I felt a flicker of frustration. We’d studied, dreamed of a better life. But now, our future looked like a pile of unpaid bills and empty hopes.
Eli broke the silence, trying to change the subject. “I managed to fix up that old busted laptop,” he said, hopeful. “That guy at the construction site was gonna toss it. If I can get it working, we could sell it for around $200.”
I forced a small, encouraging smile. “That’d be amazing. Really.”
Eli was always trying. Despite everything, he never gave up on his dreams of trade school. Two years ago, his mom’s illness had changed everything. But even then, he believed things would somehow get better.
I loved that about him, even when I couldn’t feel it myself anymore.
He finally pushed back his plate, about a third of his dinner gone. I knew he’d forget to take the rest to work tomorrow. I wrapped it up carefully for him.
After washing the dishes, I grabbed the pile of bills, pulled out our battered notebook where I tracked every dollar, and sank onto the secondhand couch beside Eli. The numbers hadn’t improved — not a bit — since I last looked.
“We’ll make it,” Eli said quietly, not looking up from the tiny circuit board he was examining.
I nodded. We always made it — just barely. Every penny counted. Every yes and no, every shift worked late, every sacrifice. Small moments of hope held us together.
Later, I noticed Eli breathing deeply, exhausted from a long day of hauling, fixing, and doing odd jobs for barely enough money. He had fallen asleep sitting up, so I gently tilted his head onto my lap. He mumbled something unintelligible and shifted closer.
How did things get like this? Two years out of school, and our life was beans, rice, solar lights, and endless counting of pennies. When had we lost ourselves?
At least, Eli managed to fix the laptop that day. We listed it on Craigslist, hoping for just enough. We earned $150, which went straight to cover bills, but it eased some pressure.
The next day, I came home to chaos. Our living room looked like a computer repair shop after a flood of PC parts was spread across the floor. Eli sat there, cross-legged, hands tangled in his hair, staring at the disassembled desktop like it had betrayed him.
“I thought I had it,” he muttered when I stepped inside.
I set down my bag and coat. “Another computer?”
He nodded miserably. “I told Mrs. Chen I could fix hers. It was just the power supply—should’ve been simple. But I think I fried the motherboard instead.”
I sat beside him, careful to not disturb the jumble of screws and chips. “Can you fix it?”
He looked down, his voice hollow. “Not without parts I can’t afford. She paid me half upfront — sixty bucks. I told her I’d finish today.”
Sixty dollars. It would help us pay something, even if just one bill. My heart sank with hope.
“You must be able to do something,” I urged. “You’re so good with this stuff.”
But Eli shook his head. “She trusted me to make it right, and I messed it up even more.”
My eyes stung with frustration and fear. I pressed my hands over my face, trying to hold back tears.
And then, out of the blue, I snapped. I blamed the stress. Earlier that day, I’d faced my third rejection that week — no law firm wanted a paralegal with no experience. Same story every time: Can’t get experience without a job, can’t get a job without experience.
I looked at Eli’s broken computer, at his worried face, and my grief boiled over. “How could you do this? I’m so tired, Eli,” I whispered. “I do everything. The bills, the meals, trying to keep us afloat. We needed that sixty dollars, and now… I can’t keep doing this alone.”
The hurt in his eyes cut through me, sharp and clear. He looked down, silent.
“I know,” he whispered softly. “That’s why I was trying to fix it. That’s why…”
He didn’t finish. Instead, he stood up and quietly left the room, closing the door behind him.
That whole night, I sat crying on the floor by the broken computer, clutching my notebook of rejected job applications. Did I just ruin the one good thing we had?
Eli returned late, creeping into our room quietly. I pretended to sleep; I felt him pause, then I sensed him gently pull the blanket over me before heading out to sleep on the couch.
Days dragged on, quiet and tense. We moved like two dancers out of sync — uneasy, connected but distant. Eli took every extra job he could find, coming home later each night. I pushed myself harder, looking for any work I qualified for, applying for anything that paid.
Then, one Thursday afternoon, Mrs. Hernandez from downstairs called me. Her voice was serious. “Eli collapsed. I found him outside my apartment. He’s in urgent care now.”
I dropped everything and rushed across town, not bothering to call my boss. When I got to the clinic, there was Eli, pale and embarrassed, with an IV in his arm, looking so tiny.
“I’m fine,” he insisted as I approached. “Just dizzy for a minute.”
But the doctor told me differently. Stress, exhaustion, low blood sugar — everything was catching up. Eli couldn’t eat when he was stressed; it made him throw up.
The clinic gave him fluids and a warning: he needed to rest, eat properly. I handed over my last twenty dollars, forcing a smile as I looked at him.
Back home, I helped him into bed despite his protests. “You scared me,” I said softly.
“I’m sorry,” Eli whispered. “For everything.”
I reached out and clasped his hand. “Me too. For that night — what I said.”
“You weren’t wrong,” he answered quietly.
“I wasn’t right either,” I said, squeezing his fingers. “We’re a team, Eli. I forgot that — for a minute.”
He looked at me with tired but clear eyes. “I’m not very good at being part of the team sometimes.”
“I am not either,” I admitted.
That night, I made soup with what few ingredients we had. We sat in the quiet kitchen, watching him eat every spoonful. I decided to widen my job hunt — no more paralegal-only listings. I applied for a remote admin role, even if it wasn’t what I’d dreamed. It needed organization, deadlines, paperwork — skills I had. Maybe it was a step forward.
After a long day of interviews and rejection emails, I finally climbed up the stairs to our apartment. When I opened the door, Eli wasn’t there. Instead, a note sat on the table: “Fire escape. Now.”
A small smile tugged at my lips despite exhaustion. I went outside, found Eli sitting on the landing beneath our window, with a tiny picnic laid out: two simple sandwiches, a blanket, and wildflowers in a coffee mug.
“They were growing on the sidewalk,” Eli grinned, holding up the flowers. “Technically, it’s not theft.”
I sat beside him, accepting the sandwich. “Thanks,” I said softly.
We ate as the sunset painted the city in oranges and pinks. For the first time in a long while, I felt the knot in my chest loosen. I finally spoke. “I applied for a different job last week. Not a paralegal. An admin job for a consulting firm. Remote. And I think I can do it.”
Eli turned to look at me, eyes full of hope. “Yeah? How do you feel about that?”
I shrugged, feeling a little scared but hopeful. “Like I’m giving up on my studies. Like I’m settling.”
He shook his head. “You’re already doing more admin work than most people running offices. You’re doing a lot more than you realize.”
That made me laugh. “Maybe you’re right.”
He squeezed my hand. “We’ll be okay, babe. Somehow.”
And for once, I believed him.
One Tuesday morning, a message popped up on my phone: “We are pleased to offer you the position of Administrative Coordinator…”
I read it three times, trying to believe it. A real job, benefits, a salary that was still modest but so much more than before.
Two weeks later, my first paycheck arrived. The money felt like a miracle.
We went shopping for real food — vegetables, fresh meats, spices. Standing in line, the total made my stomach tighten, but I could finally pay it without fear.
In the car, Eli looked at the grocery bags and suddenly started crying. I reached out, took his hand, and tears filled my eyes too.
“We can eat real food now,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.
“And next month,” I promised, “we’re getting you back into trade school. Finish what you started.”
He looked at me, surprised. “Dani, we can’t afford—”
“We can now. Or we will be,” I said confidently. “I did the math.”
We drove home with the bags, both stealing quick glances back as if they might vanish. That night, the solar lights came down, replaced by brighter lamps, and our apartment started to feel like a home again.
Six weeks into my new job, we sat down for dinner. Bread, roasted vegetables, seasoned meat. I watched Eli eat and felt tears welling up.
He’d already gained weight. His face looked healthier, his energy coming back. I even caught him snacking — a small act that showed he was healing.
“I used to count every grain of rice,” I said softly, voice thick. “And now… I love seeing you eat and enjoy it.”
Eli reached across the table, took my hand, and squeezed. We weren’t rich yet, not even close. But we were here, and we were full — finally, truly full.
