My Kids Don’t Know We’re Poor
We’ve made happy memories in the trailer park, and that’s what matters.
I’ve rented the same mobile home for the last 8 years. That means my younger kids have spent most of their childhood in a trailer park; my oldest, nearly half her life. Before that, we stayed in various condos and apartments, none of which were as nice as our current home.
This trailer was meant to be temporary, a place to catch up financially after a costly court battle. Then I fractured my skull, rebuilt my career, and went through another expensive legal nightmare. Like many of my neighbors, I’ve started claiming I’m leaving the trailer park soon, maybe next year. Most of us say that every few months, but we’re still here.
I’ve accepted my fate, and I’m not mad about it. I used to think I’d get out of here if I just worked harder. So I wrote more articles. Sold more stuff on Facebook. Delivered more food via DoorDash and Instacart. Took more college courses so I could finish my degree faster.
I also racked up more health problems. More bills. More unexpected expenses. More stress and exhaustion.
So I’m here in this trailer park for God only knows how long, and I’m making the best of it. I used to feel guilty for not being able to give my kids a fancy house in suburbia…
