I was twenty-four years old and three months pregnant when my husband died. I was a both widow and an expectant mother.
We had bought a new home and I had filled our two bedroom apartment with nursery items in anticipation of moving in. Now the house would be taken away. I knew I would have to go back to my parents' home, at least until I delivered the baby. And the shock of my husband's sudden death had made losing the baby a very real possibility.
I moved back into my old bedroom. My twin bed, a crib and a dresser was all that could fit in the 8 x lo foot bedroom. The rest of our furniture had to go into storage.
I was able to pay for three months worth of storage and then I would
have to sell all the new furniture we had bought for our new home
because I wouldn't be able to pay any more storage fees.
I had been told I couldn't grieve my husband's death because the baby was so at risk of delivering early, so I focused on keeping calm. Of course, that wasn't easy - and it only got more difficult! Because I tend not to be a person who shares my troubles much, I had told no one but my sister. She was poorer than me and could only provide moral support. My parents were just making ends meet with another mouth to feed.
Then one day in early January 1971 I received a cashier's check for $5oo. I had no idea who it was from and no amount of calling the financial institution who issued it gave me any clues.