Thrown Out Like a Stray

“Hey, ma’am! Your phone! Wait up—please!” The stranger’s voice cut through the pounding rain, but I barely heard him. My shoes squelched with every step on the slick Chicago sidewalk, and the streetlights blurred in my vision, mixing with the tears streaming down my face. I kept walking, head down, clutching a plastic grocery bag that held my entire world.

I didn’t want to turn around. Not for a stranger, not for anyone. But he kept calling, and finally, I looked back. He was holding my phone out, screen cracked, the glow flickering in his palm. Our eyes met, and for a moment, I saw pity in his face. I hated that. I hated being pitied, hated the way the world looked at me now—like I was something broken, thrown out like a stray.

“Is this yours?” he asked, out of breath.

I nodded, snatched it from his hand, and hurried away without a word. The rain soaked through my jacket, and my jeans clung to my legs, heavy and cold. It was only 8 p.m., but the city felt deserted. I passed closed coffee shops and shuttered convenience stores, my mind replaying the scene from two hours earlier—that moment my life fell apart.

“You can’t stay here, Anna. I can’t do this anymore,” Mom had said, voice trembling but face hard. “You don’t work, you don’t help, and I’m tired of the fighting.”

“So that’s it? You’re kicking me out?” I’d whispered, heart pounding. My little brother, Matt, peeked around the kitchen door, eyes wide with fear. Dad just sat at the table, silent, staring into his coffee like maybe if he looked deep enough, he’d find a better answer there.

“We all need a break, honey,” Dad finally muttered. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

I wanted to scream, to beg, to punch something. But all I did was walk to my room, shove some clothes in a plastic bag, and leave. They didn’t stop me. Not even when I slammed the door so hard it rattled the windows.

Now, as I wandered through the city, I wondered what would happen next. My friends from college barely spoke to me since I dropped out last year. The job I lost three months ago never called back. Funny how quickly you can go from ‘future teacher’ to ‘unemployed bum.’ Funny how your family can love you and still let you go when you’re too much to handle.

I ducked under the awning of a closed bakery and slid to the ground, shivering. I scrolled through my contacts, thumb hovering over names: Jessica (best friend, or used to be), Aunt Linda (last talked at Thanksgiving), Lucas (ex-boyfriend—absolutely not). My battery was at 9%. I turned the phone off. No one was going to save me anyway.

A cop car rolled past, lights flickering. I pulled my knees to my chest. A homeless man shuffled by, nodded at me, and kept going. Was this my life now?

I thought about my family. About the shouting matches with Mom, the way she’d slam cupboard doors, the way I’d skip job interviews and sleep until noon. I remembered the day Dad lost his job at the factory, how everything changed. Bills piled up, tension thickened. I started drinking a little more, blaming everyone but myself. Maybe I wasn’t the victim I pretended to be. Maybe I gave up too soon.

My phone buzzed—one last time before dying. A message from Matt: “I’m sorry. I wish you’d come back. Mom’s crying.”

I pressed my forehead to my knees and sobbed until I had nothing left. The rain eased up, and the city felt softer, like it was giving me a second chance to decide who I wanted to be.

A woman in a red raincoat appeared, setting a cardboard cup of coffee beside me. “You look cold, honey. Where you headed?”

“Nowhere,” I croaked.

She sat beside me, her warmth radiating through the plastic. “I been there,” she said. “You get through it. Sometimes family’s just a place you start, not where you finish.”

We talked for hours. She told me about losing her job, her husband, her home. About the shelter a few blocks over that let you sleep inside if you got there early enough. About the soup kitchen on Thursdays. About the way people look past you until you don’t even see yourself anymore.

“But you gotta see yourself, Anna,” she said, reading my name from my backpack. “You gotta want something better.”

I didn’t sleep much that night, curled up in the shelter’s corner bunk. But as dawn broke, I made a list in my head: 1. Call Aunt Linda. 2. Find work, any work. 3. Apologize. 4. Try again.

It wasn’t easy. I washed dishes for minimum wage at a diner, burned my arms on hot pans, got yelled at by customers. I called Aunt Linda, who let me crash on her couch for a few weeks. I sent Mom a letter—too scared for a call—telling her I was sorry, that I was trying. She didn’t answer at first. But Matt texted me pictures of the family cat, and I knew they hadn’t forgotten me.

Months passed. I saved up, found a roommate, moved into a tiny studio. I started going to therapy, talking about my anger, my fear, my shame. I volunteered at the same shelter that gave me a bed when I needed it most. One rainy night, I brought coffee to a girl sitting on the sidewalk, her face streaked with tears, and I told her my story. I told her she could get through it, too.

It’s been two years since I was thrown out like a stray. My family isn’t perfect. Sometimes Mom and I still fight. But last Thanksgiving, I carved the turkey at Aunt Linda’s, and Dad hugged me so hard I couldn’t breathe.

Sometimes I wonder—how many people have felt what I felt that night? How many of us have to hit rock bottom to find a way up again? What would you have done if it were you, standing in the rain with nowhere to go?