I told my family I had a small Brooklyn apartment—with mint green walls and a coffee maker—even though I’d actually been living in a makeshift room in an abandoned building for six months. I lied to hide my shame, especially from my brother who once called me “the smart one.”
When my niece said they wanted to visit, panic set in. Before I could figure out what to do, the police evicted me. I was arrested, but Officer Ramos listened without judgment and helped me find a shelter in Queens.
With my family coming, I finally called my brother and admitted everything—about the eviction, the homelessness, the lies. He didn’t judge; he just asked if I was okay. My sister invited me to lunch, brought my niece, and gave me $500 to help me get back on my feet.
At the shelter, I found hope. I got a part-time job, learned new skills from a fellow resident, and then met Georgia, who offered me a better job and access to housing. Soon, I had a real apartment—mint green walls and all.
The first person I invited over was my niece. She smiled and said, “So this is your place?” I said, “Yes. This is home.”
I learned that telling the truth can rebuild what shame and lies tear down. If you’re scared to be honest, remember—you’re not alone. There’s help on the other side.
