We were completely broke, living on nothing but rice and the faint glow of solar lights. My husband, Eli, looked exhausted all the time, barely able to eat because stress had taken over him. I was the one handling everything—paying the bills, cooking the meals, trying to keep us afloat. But one day, I hit my limit. Just one slip-up, one sentence, and our whole fragile life started to fall apart.
The dim yellow glow from garden lights I bought at the dollar store flickered over our dinner table. Eli had rigged them up himself, but they barely made the rice and beans in our bowls look more appealing. It was all we had.
I chewed mechanically, my mind swirling with numbers—how much gas we had left, how close the next bill was. An urgent care visit earlier that month for a UTI had wiped out what little savings we had; seventy-five dollars for treatment that felt like a punch to our already battered budget.
Across from me, Eli picked at his food, barely eating. His T-shirt hung loosely on his frail frame.
“You didn’t eat lunch again, did you?” I asked softly, my eyes fixed on him.
He shrugged, avoiding my gaze. “Forgot. Then I wasn’t hungry,” he muttered.
He tried to smile at me, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. I reached out, my voice gentle: “You need to eat.”
“I will,” he promised, rubbing his stomach as if to chase away the nausea. “I’m going to eat. Just… I’m just tired.”
He hesitated, then took a small, deliberate bite of beans, almost as if to prove he was trying. I saw him wince every time he swallowed, like the very act of eating was painful.
“Is it the nausea that’s bad?” I asked quietly.
He sighed heavily, pushing his food around with a fork. “Another bill showed up today. The construction guy who said he needed help with an electrician? Turns out he’s busy every time I go to check out his site…”
That told me all I needed to hear. Yes, the nausea was bad, but the real reason was stress twisting his guts into knots. Still, he was managing to eat something, even if it was just a few beans.
I looked over at the pile of unopened bills stacked near the door—electric, rent, overdue student loan, and now, this new one on top. It all looked impossibly overwhelming. My paralegal degree still hung on the wall, a piece of paper that hadn’t earned us anything yet.
But then Eli broke the silence with a small note of hope: “I got an old laptop I think I can fix. The guy at the site was going to toss it out. If I get it working, we could sell it for about $200.”
I forced a smile, hoping he’d see my encouragement. “That’d be great,” I said softly.
Eli always saw opportunity even in the smallest things. He never gave up on his dream to finish trade school, even after his mother got sick two years ago and everything changed.
I loved that about him, even when I felt like giving up myself.
He put down his broken breakfast, having eaten a third of it. I’d wrap the leftovers for his lunch—though I knew he’d forget to take it.
After the dishes were washed, I took out the bills, grabbed our beaten-up notebook, and sank onto the secondhand couch beside him. The numbers hadn’t changed since last week. Still frightening.
“We’re going to make it,” Eli said softly, staring just past the circuit board he was fixing. His voice was full of stubborn hope.
I nodded, though I didn’t quite believe it yet.
We always made it—barely. I worked every shift I could, watched every penny, refused every little luxury. That was the only way.
Later, I noticed Eli’s breathing turning slow and steady. I looked over and saw he’d fallen asleep sitting up, exhausted from a day of hauling and fixing, paid next to nothing.
Carefully, I bent down and gently rested his head on my lap. He mumbled something unintelligible and shifted.
How did we end up here? Two years out of school, with our lives reduced to beans, rice, solar lights, and the faint hope that things would somehow get better.
But Eli finally fixed that old laptop. We sold it to a kind man on Craigslist for one hundred fifty dollars. It wasn’t much, but it helped. The money went straight toward covering our mounting bills.
The very next day, I came home—only to find chaos.
Computer parts spread everywhere like a crime scene. Eli sat cross-legged amid a disarray of wires and screws, looking defeated.
“I thought I had it,” he whispered as I stepped inside.
I set down my bag and looked around—more broken tech, more frustration.
“Another computer?” I asked, feeling my heart tighten.
He nodded miserably. “I told Mrs. Chen I could fix hers, but I guess I messed it up. It was just the power supply… should’ve been simple. But I think I fried the motherboard now.”
I sat beside him carefully, avoiding the jumble of parts. “Can you fix it?” I asked quietly.
He looked down, hollow-eyed. “Not without parts I can’t afford. She paid me half upfront—sixty bucks—but now I’ve broken it worse.”
My chest clenched. Sixty dollars could help us eat for a week. I already knew I should be hopeful, but it was hard.
“There’s got to be something we can do,” I urged.
Eli shook his head. “She trusted me. I said I’d fix it today. Now I’ve just… ruined it.”
A wave of frustration and heartbreak hit me. I pressed my hands against my face, trying not to cry, trying to stay strong. But then, I snapped.
“Eli, I’m so tired,” I whispered, voice trembling. “I handle everything. The bills, the meals, the stress. We needed that money. And I—”
My voice broke. I was so worn out, so overwhelmed.
Eli looked at me, pain flickering across his face.
“I know,” he whispered softly. “That’s why I tried to fix it. I really did.”
His words trailed off. Then he stood, quietly tiptoeing out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
That whole night, I sat on the floor, crying over the broken computer and the mountain of unpaid bills, feeling like I’d just lost something precious.
He returned late that night. I pretended to be asleep as he crept in, but I felt him pause beside the bed. Gently, he pulled the blanket over me before slipping out again to sleep on the couch.
The next few days were tense and careful. We moved around each other like dancers out of sync—both exhausted, both hiding how much it hurt.
Then came a shocking call from Mrs. Hernandez, who lived just downstairs.
“Eli collapsed,” she said quickly. “I found him outside my apartment. He’s in urgent care now.”
I dropped everything—a bottle of cleaner, my book—and rushed out. I didn’t even bother telling my boss I was leaving.
At the clinic, I found Eli lying on an exam table, pale, with an IV in his arm.
“I’m fine,” he said hurriedly before I could speak. “Just got dizzy for a minute.”
The doctor wasn’t convinced. “Stress, exhaustion, low blood sugar,” she diagnosed. “When was the last time you ate a real meal?”
Eli looked away.
He couldn’t meet her eyes. “I can’t always eat when I’m stressed,” I muttered. “It just… comes back up.”
The clinic gave fluids and a warning. I handed over my last twenty dollars, forcing a brave smile.
Back home, I helped Eli into bed, despite his protests.
“You scared me,” I whispered.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered back, staring at the ceiling. “For everything.”
“Me too,” I said softly. “Especially what I said the other night.”
“You weren’t wrong,” he admitted. “I’m not very good at being part of this team sometimes.”
“Neither am I,” I confessed.
That night, I made soup from what we had—anything to make him feel better. I watched him eat it all, a tiny victory. Later, I widened my job search, applying for anything that paid—even if it wasn’t my dream job.
A week later, after a long day of interviews and rejection letters, I climbed the stairs to our apartment. The door was open, and on the table was a note: “Fire escape. Now.”
I sighed, almost smiling despite myself.
Out on the fire escape, I found Eli lying on a blanket with a small picnic: two sandwiches, a handful of wildflowers in a mug, and a simple joy.
“They were just growing onto the sidewalk,” he grinned. “So, technically, not stealing.”
I sat next to him, taking the offered sandwich. “Thanks,” I whispered.
We ate quietly, watching the sunset turn the sky orange and pink. For the first time in weeks, the tight knot in my chest loosened.
“I applied for a new job,” I said finally. “Not a paralegal. An admin job for a consulting firm—remote. It pays enough to start turning things around.”
Eli looked at me, curious. “Yeah? How do you feel about that?”
“I feel… like I’m giving up on my dream,” I admitted, “but it’s a start. And I think I can do it.”
He squeezed my hand. “We’ll be okay—somehow.”
And somehow, I started to believe him.
Then, one Tuesday morning, I checked my email and saw it—“We are pleased to offer you the position of Administrative Coordinator…” I read it three times. A real job. Benefits. A paycheck.
Two weeks later, I held my first paycheck in my hands. It was enough. Enough to buy fresh vegetables, meat, spices—things we hadn’t seen in months.
In the checkout line, my stomach clenched at the total, but this time, I could pay without worry.
Back in the car, Eli looked at the bags and suddenly started crying. I took his hand, tears running down my face too.
“We can eat real food now,” he whispered.
“And next month,” I promised, “we’re getting you back into trade school. Finish what you started.”
He looked surprised. “Dani, we can’t afford that—”
“But we will,” I said firmly. “I’ve done the math. We’re starting fresh.”
That night, the solar lights came down, replaced by bright lamps. The dull, cramped apartment suddenly felt warmer, more like home.
Six weeks after I landed the new job, we sat down to a simple dinner—bread, roasted vegetables, seasoned meat.
I watched Eli eat eagerly, tears behind my eyes. He’d gained weight, his face brighter, his energy returning. He even snacked last weekend—a small, precious victory.
“I used to count every grain of rice,” I said softly, “and now… I’m just happy to see you eating and enjoying it.”
Eli reached across the table and took my hand, smile softening his eyes.
We weren’t rich, and still walking through tough times. But we were here. And for the first time in a long while, we felt full—full of hope, of love, of life.
