Chapter 7 - The Bungalow's New PurposeI went back to the shelter the next week, this time with questions instead of cake — about legitimate transitional-housing organizations, screening, insurance, case management, employment requirements, length of placements, whether homeowners could keep legal title. I explained I owned a vacant bungalow and was considering putting it through a structured program.
Then I added something important. "I met a mother and daughter here on Christmas. I don't want them selected because I met them."
The coordinator nodded. "That's good."
"If I do this, the program chooses the family. I don't want to see applicant files."
"Also good."
Priya wasn't there that day — she had a job interview. Zuri was doing homework and looked up. "Cake lady."
"I have a name."
"I know."
"Do you?"
She grinned. "What are you working on?"
"Fractions."
"That's serious."
"Mom says they're important."
"Your mother's right."
She looked deeply disappointed in me. I laughed. That ordinariness mattered — she wasn't a symbol of hardship. She was Zuri. Nine years old. Hated fractions. Loved chocolate frosting. Her mother was looking for work. They were living through a hard stretch. That was all.
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I researched several organizations and chose one running single-family transitional homes for nine to twelve months, with case managers, employment requirements, savings targets, and a plan to keep kids stable in school. The nonprofit handled placements. I kept legal title. It wasn't rescue. It was a bridge.
Over several weeks, my attorney and I worked through inspections, insurance, repairs, and the use agreement. Nothing happened overnight, and I liked that. Stopping the transfer on Christmas had needed to happen fast. Everything after deserved patience.
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