We were so poor we couldn’t afford sugar for our coffee. Even with five of us splitting it, we could barely make rent in a three-bedroom apartment with sun-bleached carpet and an A/C that never worked. It was prime real estate—across the street from the university. Everyone wanted it. We got it. But there was still no sugar.

I knocked on the neighbors’ door. An Indian man answered. An engineering major. The only conclusion I could draw as to why anyone would move across the planet to live in this wretched town. I never did find out how many men lived in that particular apartment. They had packed in, same as us. I always figured it was five or six. Either way, they didn’t have any sugar either, and, outside of a friendly wave, I never exchanged words with any of them ever again.

I made my way back upstairs to rummage for something—anything—that I could use to sweeten my coffee. Crystallized honey. Perfect. We didn’t have any milk either, but I wouldn’t ask the neighbors for that. My mother always told me not to drink other people’s milk.

Our roommate’s girlfriend had never received any such instruction, which was made evident when I caught her drinking straight out of the gallon in the middle of the night. The gallon that I had paid for. I never bought milk for that apartment again. Or, for that matter, anything that I couldn’t store in my own bedroom. I also stopped using the dishes so I could confidently say that not a shred of the mess and filth was mine.

I sat on the couch—that my boyfriend and I had paid for—with Jane Eyre and sipped my only very slightly sweetened black coffee. The honey hadn’t gone as far as I’d hoped. This is it, I thought. This is rock bottom. Nothing can be worse than this coffee. I would learn many years later of course, that coffee could in fact be much, much worse. But at eighteen years old, it was as if life itself were over.

My phone rang on the couch next to me. Mom.

She called to tell me she was leaving my dad and that she had made plans for my aunt and my aunt’s boyfriend at the time to come move her out while Dad was at work.

“How are you feeling?” she asked me after her long-winded reasoning about how she just couldn’t do it anymore.

Part of me was relieved. Happy. Part of me thought, It’s about damn time. Another part: You couldn’t have done this ten years ago? But then again, what would we have done for money? Not that there was any money when they were together anyway. Then, Maybe my brothers and sister will have a better childhood than I did.

What I actually said was, “I’m okay. You’re doing what you have to do. And I know you still love him, so it’s okay.” Stupid. What a stupid thing to say. What does that even mean? You still love him. Why would that make leaving him any better for anyone involved?

“Actually,” she said, “I’m not sure I do.”

That hit me in a way I hadn’t expected. It didn’t make me sad, but something stirred inside me. It does something to a person when you learn your mother doesn’t love your father anymore. Even if he was terrible to be around and you’re not particularly fond of him yourself. It makes you realize your parents are just people in this world who have no idea what they’re doing, they’re just doing their best. When you realize your entire upbringing was molded by a wing and a prayer. That does something to you. Changes you. Makes you wonder what any of us are actually doing, and can we really rely on anything if we can’t rely on our own father taking care of his family the way he should? Or count on our mother loving him unconditionally despite his many flaws?

No. Something changes inside you when you realize you can’t rely on anything. Not forever anyway. Not our role models, not love, and especially not the idea that anyone in your apartment building will most certainly have a tablespoon of sugar to spare.

By the time I hung up the phone, my coffee had gone cold. Not at all fond of microwave-heated coffee, I poured it down the sink, not looking forward to the inevitable headache that would come later.