![]() My husband and I just stared at our bank account. ![]() I remember when the first wire came it was $50,000. I thought I could bring people back or keep them here. With my first royalties, I thought I could restore myself, or reconstitute all the things that had been stripped from me, after years of being without. The book did well enough that I see staged photos of its cover on influencers’ Instagram accounts, next to cold brews or succulents, and I receive royalties twice a year that are enough to buy a vehicle with, or pay off debt, or support my family for a year. In order to break away from that place and such silence, I wrote a book. The seat on the other side of that desk feels like silence. ![]() ![]() I would make my case and yet not speak up for myself. In order to receive assistance, you have to be small and needy. The other side of a welfare worker’s desk kind of poor. ![]()
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