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When I found out my mother was living in her car in Oregon, I was sitting in the dining hall at my expensive liberal arts school, 2, 500 miles away. Index.html i read the text message — “i don't sleep at carol's. The drive's too far so I sleep at rest stops near school during the week. ” — and my breath left me. My heart seized up. I felt knives at the backs of my eyes. I tried my best not to steal glances at my classmates to see if they'd sensed some disturbance in the force.

When you go to school with the children of 1-percenters, you learn how to keep [index.html] your poker face as daily money catastrophes come crashing through the door. This time, I reached for a steadying breath index.html, some semblance of air. But I couldn't find one. For once, I couldn't keep up with the idle chitchat that usually carried me and my friends from day to day, from class to dining hall to dorm and back again.

I called my mom, tearful, pleading. I reached for every solution in our arsenal. index.html Could she find a job closer to home? There weren't any,



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