When I was eighteen, my parents threw me out of the house because I was sexually active. It was 1968. I couch surfed with my boyfriend before we moved to Boston so I could go to art school. I didn't see or speak to my parents for a year and a half. I dropped out of school because I couldn't pay the tuition. Eventually I drove across country in a 'drive-away car' with my friends and a backpack. I landed in LA where I lived on the beach with other hippies. And that's just part of the story.
What I mean to say is that I will never understand how a parent could throw away a child. I know it happens all the time but as a mother, I don't get it. I was a naive eighteen year old with barely any skills. And I'll always be terrified that I won't have a place to live, no matter how hard I try to secure housing and enough money. I stole food. I lived hand-to-mouth on temp jobs and the kindness of strangers. I only got busted for hitchhiking once. I was lucky.
My children always have a home with me, as long as I live. I know that and so do they.
I never really feel safe.