Her name was Averi. She resembled my daughter, but she was my niece.
My sister couldn’t care for Averi. The choice was mine or foster care. I decided my life wasn’t more important than hers, so the Florida Department of Children and Families (DCF) granted me temporary custody. At 27, I suddenly became responsible for keeping a 4-year-old alive.
Most parents get months to prepare; I had fewer than seven days.
I earned $360 a week, roughly $18,500 a year. Now I had to fit child care — daycare, food, clothing and all the unforeseen costs — into an already paper-thin budget.
On top of that, I was drowning in grief from losing my own mother that same year.
I kept repeating that I could handle it. After all, it was only meant to last two months.
My First Days in the Single-Mom Hustle
My first days as a stand-in parent raised more questions than my sleep-deprived brain could handle: Who would watch her while I worked? How on earth would I afford this?
Fortunately, there was a voluntary prekindergarten (VPK) and daycare just two blocks from my apartment, and they kindly let me bring Averi the same evening I picked her up from DCF.
Averi wandered the classroom with curiosity while I quietly filled the teachers and staff in on our situation.
Back at my apartment, we settled into our first night together.
I unrolled an air mattress on my bedroom floor. She was supposed to have her own sleeping space, and an air mattress was the quickest, cheapest fix.
The first morning I left her at daycare was emotionally brutal for both of us. I cried the entire drive to work.
And once I arrived, I could hardly concentrate. My head was full of new responsibilities, commitments and sacrifices I was just starting to unravel. I ran through checklists, appointments and my shaky finances.
I knew my pay wasn’t nearly enough to cover child care. I lived paycheck to paycheck already.
Rebekah, my roommate and childhood friend, shared the situation with me. Splitting rent and utilities kept my baseline costs lower. But my credit card debt had nearly doubled since my mother’s death.
My approximate monthly expenses were:
- Rent payment: $375
- Car payment: $350
- Electric bill: $75
- Internet and cable: $65
- Car insurance: $115
- Cell phone: $75
- Gas: $40
- Credit card: $200
- Groceries: $150
Total monthly expenses: $1,445.
My average monthly income: $1,440.
Adding the cost of caring for Averi pushed me into a new realm of financial panic. Trying to design a budget that worked felt impossible.
It began to suffocate me.
The Maze of Applying for Public Assistance
During my first home visit with Averi’s social worker, I reluctantly voiced my worries. I was terrified I might lose her to the system.
The social worker encouraged me to apply for public assistance, something I hadn’t even thought about. I never pictured myself needing aid. But I had to act.
Asking for help wasn’t part of my family’s repertoire. My parents always struggled, yet rarely asked for assistance. So refusing “charity” had been ingrained in me — I always paid my way, even when it secretly broke me.
But I valued Averi’s well-being more than my pride. The situation was too real. I needed help. Any help.
I didn’t know where to begin, so the social worker handed me a list of programs I qualified for. I jumped in headfirst.
I swallowed my pride and signed any form I could. Applying for government assistance at 27 became my new normal.
School Readiness
The first program that helped was Florida’s School Readiness financial assistance program.
It subsidized weekly daycare costs, allowing me to keep working without spending most of my take-home pay on child care, as many parents are forced to do.
After a $125 deposit, I paid $9.20 a week for Averi’s daycare.
She attended VPK in the morning and an after-school program in the same building afterwards. I had to pick her up by 6 p.m. every day, or face a non-subsidized, minute-by-minute late charge.
Temporary Cash Assistance
At first, my situation qualified me for temporary cash assistance (TCA), a $180 monthly stipend meant to help families with children.
The benefits aim to keep kids in their homes, or with a blood relative, instead of entering foster care.
I received an Access debit card — the same kind of card people use for food benefits. (The Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) as we know it today wasn’t yet in place.)
The card was loaded with $180 each month. I could use it anywhere electronic benefit transfer (EBT) payments were accepted.
Suddenly I was the person scanning storefronts for a “We Accept EBT” sign, or quietly asking a cashier if they take EBT, anxious about what others might think.
Eventually, DCF approved me for the Relative Caregiver program, and the $180 increased to $240 a month.
Women, Infants and Children
Because of Averi’s age, I was also eligible for the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s supplemental nutrition program, Women, Infants and Children (WIC).
WIC assists low-income women with children under 5. WIC serves 53% of all infants in the United States.
Luckily, my 32-hour-a-week job allowed me time for the sluggish government waiting rooms. I spent a morning there.
I walked out with a stack of food vouchers that had date ranges, expirations and lists of specific eligible items. How hard could this be?
The choices on my monthly food allotment weren’t exactly the nutritious foods I’d hoped for.
But I had to accept reality: it was white bread, cereal and canned beans. No more organic eggs, fresh vegetables or soy milk that I’d had before Averi came into my care.
The monthly allowance included a mere $8 for fruits and vegetables. I wished for more, but I was grateful for food, no matter its form.
Averi loved bananas and green beans, so I’d pick up those fresh items plus a bag of carrots or apples, whichever the voucher would cover.
I’ll never forget the first time I used them at the checkout. I dreaded the experience, fearing judgmental stares as I redeemed my government-issued food help.
I read the voucher over and over so I’d follow the rules perfectly and avoid trouble at the register.
But the cashier told me I’d made a mistake.
I’d grabbed a 24-ounce loaf of bread when the voucher specified only 20-ounce loaves. I was mortified. I couldn’t leave Averi to dash back to the shelf, so I put everything back into the cart, trying to dodge the gaze of the growing line behind me.
There it was on the shelf: the 20-ounce loaf with “WIC” plain on the price tag.
After that, I spent more time at the grocery store than I’d like, cross-referencing vouchers to avoid a scene at checkout.
Medicaid
Averi caught a cold the first week at daycare, and I followed. I hadn’t been sick in over a year, but stress had weakened my immune system.
Then it was pink eye.
Repeated sinus infections, ineffective prescriptions and numerous doctor visits eventually led to an asthma diagnosis. She was put on nebulizer treatments three to four times a day.
She coughed like someone twice her age. Her breathing improved somewhat and she came off the nebulizer for a while.
But the symptoms returned, so we saw the pediatrician again. Chest X-rays showed pneumonia. She needed rest — which meant finding sitters or missing work.
That summer, we both contracted scabies after visiting my grandmother’s residence. The itching lasted months. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
I’m terrified to imagine what might have happened to her without Medicaid.
What Life as a Single Parent Was Like
After the first week, I was told that the initial two-month timeframe would actually stretch to six months.
To pass the time, I kept her occupied.
I found plenty of free, kid-friendly activities around town. We went to community festivals, parks and no-cost concerts.
Friends gifted us free museum tickets and passes to events like the Renaissance Festival. Averi soaked up all the new experiences.
I signed her up for a Busch Gardens preschool pass, free for children 5 and under. I already had a discounted monthly pass — about $7 a month — so we often spent the day there for free entertainment.
When she outgrew clothing, someone would bring hand-me-downs so I didn’t have to buy new outfits. When I did shop, thrift stores turned the experience into a fun treasure hunt to find a piece she loved.
You learn a lot about people when you’re squeezed between impossible choices.
I’d arrive at work to find a handwritten note and AMC gift cards on my desk. A friend’s mother might slip me $20 when I hugged her. My boyfriend treated us to dinner, or his mom would make breakfast on an ordinary Sunday without being asked.
Many people endured DCF background checks just to babysit for a few hours so I could sleep or catch up on work.
For Averi’s fifth birthday, more than 40 people showed up to her Chuck E. Cheese party.
At home, we danced among all the tissue paper from gifts. The joy on Averi’s face showed she didn’t know about our hardships. She only felt the generosity of friends and family, and that’s how I wanted it.
The support network humbled me, and I allowed myself to lean on it.
That August, Averi started school. She received free lunches, and I made her breakfast at home. She adjusted easily, and I covered fundraisers, classroom activities and birthday presents for classmates.
One night before bedtime, I watched the moment she finally grasped Dr. Seuss’ “Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now!” She read every last page (except Zumble-Zay).
Sharing that milestone was priceless; I’ll always cherish it.
The Financial Toll of Being a Caregiver
August rolled into September, and with time my financial troubles deepened.
While people might have assumed I’d be rewarded for my sacrifice, I was busy maxing out credit cards.
I knew I’d pay for it eventually, but I didn’t care. My instinct was to protect her at all costs.
Credit card companies began lowering my limits because I was only making minimum payments and spending more than I should.
Overdraft fees on my checking account sent me to my Bank of America branch. I hadn’t planned to cry when I spoke with the teller, but the tears came anyway. I only wanted a $30 fee reversed for being $2 over my balance.
It happened multiple times. One bank employee started recognizing me and my situation. His patience and kindness were beyond me, and so were his suggestions.
He told me about financial hardship programs that could let me close credit cards and pay little to no interest.
By September, I began closing credit cards. I knew this would hurt my length-of-credit-history, but it was the only way to stop drowning in debt, consolidate and lower interest rates.
The Life I Chose for Averi
I was granted permanent guardianship of Averi that November.
I wanted to keep her close, but I knew in my heart I couldn’t keep providing for her or afford our life together.
My older brother had recently moved back into state. We talked about the possibility of Averi living with him and what would be best long-term.
On paper, I was single and strapped. He had a wife and daughter and was financially secure.
We both understood that living with him would be best for her, despite how much it hurt my chest.
That Christmas arrived quickly.
Thanks to donations coordinated by DCF and ongoing generosity from family and friends, Averi lacked for nothing. Santa brought perhaps her best Christmas yet. Presents piled high around our 3-foot pink tree.
While she tore through gifts, I took an absurd number of photos, bracing myself for the fact that our time — like 2010 — was drawing to a close.
I began to accept letting go and making the choice to give her a better future: one not dependent on the system, still surrounded by family, and within an arm’s reach of me.
A week shy of a year together, I packed her things, swallowing tears.
Her move to my brother’s house was an easy decision for her — she adored her cousin and wanted nightly sleepovers. The only thing she said she’d miss was me.
As we loaded her belongings into my brother’s black Suburban, she hugged me tight and said, “I love you with all my heart, Aunt Stephanie.”
What My Year on Public Assistance Taught Me
My year relying on public assistance was eight years ago.
Averi now lives 2,000 miles away.
My brother accepted a job up north, so they moved a year after she left my care.
We’ve seen each other only a handful of times since; we keep in touch with handwritten letters.
It took a while to adjust to life without her, emotionally and financially.
I had considerable credit card debt before Averi, but it nearly doubled after a year of unexpected child-related expenses. Public assistance ended the moment she left my care.
Claiming her as a dependent gave me a boost on my tax return, but it barely dented the damage.
It took me years to get serious about paying it off instead of wallowing. I felt I’d sacrificed enough and wanted to live without constant worry.
Of course, ignoring debt doesn’t work. I couldn’t avoid the obligations unless I filed for bankruptcy, and that wasn’t for me. Having already navigated public assistance, I wanted to clear my slate for good. So I confronted it.
I fought that interest-laden mountain with balance-transfer credit cards and a personal loan to consolidate other debts.
I chipped away at the balance every year, and as of August 2018, I’m finally free of debt — aside from a car payment — for the first time in 16 years.
My credit score recovered, but I learned some expensive lessons.
I’m not ashamed to admit that public assistance carried me through the toughest year of my life.
My encounters with social workers, courts and public assistance agencies opened my eyes to how many children need help. Those lessons pushed me to pursue opportunities to get involved locally.
I learned that asking for help is okay; people care and want to assist. And one day, you might have the chance to return that kindness.
Edited by Morgan Hale, former staff writer at Savinly.
