OZARK, Mo. — Lisa Grim braced herself as she turned the key to her family’s new apartment.
It had taken more than a month to find a landlord willing to accept her — a newly widowed 33-year-old raising two kids, barely making $20,000 a year. None of the other 20 apartments had returned her calls and emails. This unit, which she had rented sight unseen, was the only one that approved her application.
“I’m not expecting anything fancy. As long as it’s clean and doesn’t smell,” she said as she opened the door on the first day of July, trailed by her 10-year-old son, Ralphie. She’d left her 4-year-old, Walker, crying that morning at the new day care he hated.
Nine months had passed since her husband Alan, 37, died of covid-19 in a rural Missouri ICU once again filling with coronavirus patients. Nine months since Lisa realized that without Alan’s salary, they could no longer afford their mortgage, forcing her to put the family’s house on the market and move to this apartment an hour away from everything her boys had known.
“Oh yay, it doesn’t stink,” Lisa declared as she walked into the living room. “It’s not bad, not horrible at all.”
Ralphie trudged in behind her and frowned. “It’s smaller than our old house,” he said.
He’d cried and yelled at her when she told him that they had to sell their modest, three-bedroom ranch home.
“It’s the only house I’ve ever lived in,” Ralphie argued. “It’s the house Daddy lived in.”