At My Daughter’s Baby Shower, Her Husband Dropped My Nine-Month Hand-Stitched Quilt On The Gift Table And Said, “This Thing Is Garbage.” I Smiled, Folded It Back Into My Tote, And Left The Country Club—Because By Morning, My Attorney Was Holding The Deed To That Lawn.

By 2010, I owned twelve properties.

By 2020, twenty-eight.

After the pandemic, thirty-four.

When COVID hit, some of my tenants lost jobs, lost health, lost spouses, lost the ability to believe tomorrow would resemble anything they’d planned.

I did not raise rent.

I let some people pay late.

I forgave months entirely for others.

One tenant in the Bronx sent continue reading …