“We’re resourceful,” I finally said. “That’s different.”
But the truth was more complicated. We weren’t poverty-stricken in the absolute sense. I had a job doing data entry for a medical supply company. It paid enough to cover rent, utilities, and food. We weren’t starving or homeless.
But we also didn’t have room for emergencies. No savings account to speak of. No buffer when appliances died or cars needed repairs or kids needed new shoes because they’d outgrown the old ones.
We definitely didn’t have “new washing machine” money. Not even close.
That weekend, I loaded all three kids into our beat-up sedan and drove to a thrift store on the edge of town that I’d heard sometimes sold used appliances.
The place smelled like dust and old fabric. Milo complained immediately about the weird smell. Hazel stayed close to my side, nervous about the unfamiliar environment. Nora wandered off to look at the books, which was her default whenever we went anywhere.
I found an employee and asked about washing machines.
“Got one in the back,” he said, barely looking up from his phone. “Sixty bucks. As is, no returns.”
He led me to a corner of the storage area where a white washing machine sat with a handwritten cardboard sign taped to it: “$60. AS IS. NO RETURNS.”
It looked old but not ancient. Scratched and dented but structurally intact.
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