165 Sisters Meet

(Winona)

I glance around the living room. There’s a peninsula bench dividing the space. Over that, the small kitchen. I know up the hall there are two bedrooms, but I was never allowed in those. If I ever did peak in, I got a beating. Now I know why.

It’s the same layout. The same place.

But I can see the signs of care—clean dishes stacked in the sink corner, fresh flowers in a chipped vase. Furnishings that are older but not the trash we once had here. She’s been trying. It’s not much, but it’s something.

Somehow, amongst the dilapidated structure, this place looks and feels like a home. Not my home but a home.

I can’t help but wonder how she’s made ends meet all these years. It’s been over eighteen years.

“I got help. Did some courses. Learned how my experience could help me help others. I do social work part time. It isn’t much but we live simple lives.” It’s like she’s read my mind.

I nod. “That’s great.”

“I can’t work any more hours because of the trauma I suffered. I can only do