I never thought I’d get it. After dozens of CVs, endless nights working random online gigs, and surviving on instant noodles while raising eight kids, I had honestly stopped hoping.
I still remembered the day I got the call. It was raining—just a soft drizzle tapping on the cracked windowpanes of our apartment. I was folding laundry for the kids while Adam gnawed on a teether and Jay was reciting multiplication tables backwards because “it’s more fun that way, Mama!”
My phone vibrated.
I didn’t even check the number. Lately, unknown numbers usually meant debt collectors or job rejections. Still, something inside me made me answer.
“Hello?” I asked cautiously, balancing a warm towel over my shoulder.
“Is this Ms. Twain? Mannie Twain?”
“Yes.”
“This is Blackmoore Enterprises. We review
