But upstairs in his room, my little boy was sitting on the carpet, waiting to find out whether he’d be thrown out of his family before Monday morning came.

I’d sooner work three overnight cleaning shifts and sleep on a dirt floor than ever let a spreadsheet convince my son he didn’t belong in my arms.

Part 5: Making the Numbers Work

By two the next morning, the kitchen island was buried under legal pads full of frantic math, unpaid utility stubs and empty coffee mugs.

Peter had gone up to sleep in the guest room hours earlier, completely overwhelmed by his own panic, and Gretchen had stormed out of the house after packing her designer handbag.

I sat by myself under the warm pendant light, a cold cup of chamomile tea in one hand while my calculator screen glowed with numbers that just wouldn’t add up in our favor.