I thought working as a driver for a rich widow would simply help me support my children. But one shocking accusation pulled me into a situation far more tangled than I ever expected.
The kitchen table revealed everything before I even sat down.
Two unpaid bills, a coffee stain on the electricity notice, and a crayon picture my daughter Lily had drawn of our family in front of a home. When you are raising three children alone and rent keeps rising faster than your income, pride becomes something you cannot afford.
That was how I, Stan, thirty-five years old, became Mrs. Whitmore’s driver.
