Chapter 1 - Twenty Dollars for Thirty Days
My mother left me alone for a month with twenty dollars.
When she finally returned from Europe, she came through the front door carrying four shopping bags and wearing a diamond bracelet I had never seen before.
She smiled when she saw me.
“See, Sydney? I told you that you'd be fine.”
Then she walked into the kitchen.
Her shopping bags slipped from her hands.
She stared at the paper on the table.
“No.”
Her face turned white.
“No, no. This can't be happening.”
I was eleven years old, and for the first time in my life, my mother looked more frightened than I felt.
But to understand why, I have to go back thirty days.
My name is Sydney Miller.
We lived in a beautiful four-bedroom house outside Columbus, Ohio. The kitchen had honey-colored cabinets, a large wooden table, and a window overlooking a backyard where my father used to grow tomatoes.
Dad died four years earlier.
After that, Mom changed.
At first, she cried all the time. She left his coffee mug beside the sink and couldn't bear to throw away his old work boots.
Then she started going out.
Dinners.
Weekend trips.
Shopping.
New friends who called her glamorous.
Eventually, she began dating a man named Derek Lawson, who drove a silver BMW and called me “kiddo” without ever remembering my birthday.
Mom said Derek was helping her enjoy life again.
I wanted her to be happy.
I just wished she remembered I was there.
The morning she left, I found her standing in the kitchen wearing a cream pantsuit and white heels.
Three enormous suitcases waited beside the door.
“Mom?”
She glanced at her watch.
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
“Are we going somewhere?”
She laughed.
“Not we. Me.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Derek and I are going to Europe.”
I thought she meant a weekend.
Maybe four days.
Then she said:
“We'll be gone about a month.”
I looked at the suitcases.
“What about me?”
She opened her purse.
Pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.
And placed it in my hand.
“There.”
I stared at it.
“What's this?”
“Spending money.”
“For how long?”
She sighed.
“Sydney, I just told you.”
“Thirty days?”
“Approximately.”
I looked toward the refrigerator.
There was no grocery list.
No meal plan.
No phone number taped to the door.
“Who's staying with me?”
Mom stopped fastening her bracelet.
“What?”
“Is Aunt Nora coming?”
Her expression changed.
“You know I don't want your aunt interfering in our lives.”
“But who's going to be here?”
She gave me the same bright smile she used whenever she wanted an uncomfortable conversation to end.
“You're independent now.”
I stared.
“I'm eleven.”
“Exactly. Not a baby.”
She took her phone from the counter.
“You can make sandwiches. Use the microwave. Order food if you need to.”
“With twenty dollars?”
Her smile disappeared.
“Don't start acting ungrateful.”
I went silent.
She kissed the top of my head.
“I'll call you.”
Then she pulled her suitcases toward the door.
Derek honked outside.
Mom looked annoyed.
“Coming!”
She turned back.
“Lock the door. And don't make a mess.”
Then she left.
I stood in the hallway holding the twenty-dollar bill.
The front door clicked shut.
A car engine started.
Then faded down the street.
I waited.
I thought she'd come back.
Maybe she'd forgotten something.
Maybe she was joking.
Maybe somebody would arrive and explain that I was staying with them.
Nobody came.
After fifteen minutes, I went into the kitchen.
The refrigerator contained sour milk, half a lemon, a jar of pickles, and a container of old takeout.
In the pantry, I found creamed corn, tuna, crackers, and a nearly empty box of cereal.
I counted the twenty dollars again.
It was still twenty dollars.
I tried calling Mom.
Straight to voicemail.
I left a message.
“Mom, there's not much food. Can you call me?”
Then I sat at the table.
Outside, a bird landed on the windowsill.
Dad used to leave breadcrumbs there.
I wondered what he would have done if he'd known Mom was leaving.
I knew the answer.
He would never have let me stay alone.
That first night, I made tuna and crackers for dinner.
I locked the front door.
Then checked the back door.
Then checked the front again.
At nine, I brushed my teeth.
At ten, I lay in bed listening to the refrigerator hum.
At eleven, I got up and turned on every hallway light.
I called Mom again.
Nothing.
I sent a message.
I miss you. Please call.
A little blue check appeared beside it.
She had seen it.
She didn't answer.
I pulled Dad's old sweatshirt from my closet and wrapped it around myself.
It still smelled faintly of the laundry soap he used to buy.
Then I whispered:
“Dad, what do I do?”
The house didn't answer.
The next morning, I spent four dollars on bread and peanut butter at the corner store.
I made myself a sandwich.
Then another for lunch.
I went to school and tried to act normal.
When my teacher, Ms. Brooks, asked why I looked tired, I said I'd stayed up reading.
It wasn't a complete lie.
I'd read the emergency instructions on our refrigerator three times.
Unfortunately, they only explained what to do if the refrigerator stopped working.
By the fourth day, I had twelve dollars left.
By the fifth, I had started cutting my sandwiches in half.
That was the day I stopped waiting for Mom to call.
And it was the day I found a letter in Dad's old desk.
An envelope addressed to me.
In my father's handwriting.
The front said:
Sydney, if you ever feel alone, read this first.
May you like
I sat on the floor, holding it.
Then I opened it.
