The House I Entered for Shelter

I was twenty-five years old when I married Florence.

If I am honest, love was not the reason.

At the time, my life had narrowed into a daily struggle for survival. I slept in my truck. I worried constantly about money. Most of my decisions were driven by fear rather than conviction.

Florence was seventy-one.

She owned a small house in Montana, kept food in the refrigerator, and lived with a stability that felt almost unimaginable to me.

What began as gratitude quickly became something less honorable.