While Googling myself (yes, we all do it) I had the misfortune of learning a girl I went to high school with, who shares my first name, was murdered last year in a domestic gun fight.

That kind of thing happens a lot where I’m from. For us, it’s not just movie drama—it’s actually waking up to a woman’s screams after her relative was shot on the steps behind my building; it’s maneuvering past eight squad vans to check the mailbox; it’s walking home because the police closed down the subway station after an arrest; it’s screeching tires; it’s not knowing if the loud pops are fireworks or gunfire. It’s common to witness death and pain, yet it is never comfortable.

I know I need to move, but the system isn’t designed to make it easy for Black folks. Without excellent credit, a co-signer, or a lighter complexion, it’s difficult to find affordable housing in a safe environment. You have to live in the hood if you want some kind of money left at the end of the month.

Scott has referenced the possibility of cohabitation, but the odds seem low. He’s trying to find stable employment, and I’m used to living on my own since Mom passed. I don’t really want to move in with anyone else at the moment, unless I was forced. I like waking whenever I want (on my off days). I like running my own show.

Ideally, I want us to get to a place where we both support each other. In Mom’s last years, our incomes matched. Whatever she couldn’t afford, I would chip in on, and vise versa. It felt good to know I could trust her financially, but I’m thankful that I had my own money. I’ll never forget the fear that hit me in the months after her passing. I had to grow up instantly—there was no more counting on Mom to save the day.

So, for now, I’ll stay in the apartment as long as my landlord allows. I’ll take the rent hikes. I’m grateful to have a place of my own and for the memories Mom and I shared there.