ALEC & SUSAN

Between Homeand Hardship

SUSAN

Stepping out into the cold, flurried air of JFK Airport, I stopped for a moment and took it all in. Snowflakes drifted lazily from the gray sky, swirling through the glow of streetlights and settling on the sidewalks in a thin blanket of white. It was my first glimpse of New York City, and despite the biting cold that seeped through my clothes, excitement warmed me from the inside. I didn’t even have a proper winter coat, but knowing my uncle was waiting for me made me feel strangely comfortable. Beyond the airport, the city sparkled in the distance—a sea of lights stretching endlessly into the night. The energy of it all was intoxicating.

The drive to my uncle’s apartment in Brooklyn took about an hour. I sat by the window, mesmerized by the endless stream of headlights, towering buildings, and neighborhoods that seemed to flow into one another. Everything felt larger, louder, and more alive than anything I had ever known. By the time we arrived, my eyelids were heavy with exhaustion.

My uncle lived on the fifth floor of a brick apartment building. I silently thanked whoever had invented elevators as we wheeled my luggage inside. The apartment was modest but warm, a welcome escape from the winter air outside. After I dropped my bags beside the sofa that would be my bed for the next year, my uncle sat me down and explained the house rules.

“You’ll be sleeping on the couch,” he said matter-of-factly. “And if I have company over, you’ll have to wait in the hallway until she leaves.”

I forced a smile and nodded.

This is going to be a long year, I thought.

The next morning, I woke to a sight so beautiful that for a moment I wondered if I was dreaming. Everything outside the window had been transformed overnight. The streets, rooftops, parked cars, and bare tree branches were covered in a thick layer of white. The world looked softer, quieter, almost magical.

I had never seen snow before.

Unable to resist, I rushed to the window and slid it open. Instantly, a blast of icy air flooded the room, making me gasp and stumble backward. I stretched out a hand and caught a few flakes. They landed gently on my skin before disappearing into tiny drops of water. The cold stung my fingers, but I couldn’t stop smiling.

With my uncle likely already at work, I decided to make myself useful. I spent the morning tidying the apartment, wiping down counters, sweeping floors, and organizing anything that looked out of place. When I finished, I prepared a hot meal, hoping it would be a pleasant surprise when he returned home.

Before leaving that morning, my uncle had left me a subway map with the route I was supposed to follow. I studied the colored lines and unfamiliar station names for a few minutes before folding it and slipping it into my pocket.

Instead of following the plan exactly, I decided to be adventurous.

Bundled in layers of clothing, I stepped out into the crisp winter air and walked to the nearest train station. The city felt different from anything I had ever experienced. Steam drifted from street grates, people hurried past with collars pulled high against the cold, and the distant wail of sirens echoed between buildings.

After navigating the subway, I emerged in Manhattan.

The moment I stepped onto the street, I stood frozen—not from the cold, but from awe.

Towering buildings stretched toward the sky, their windows reflecting the afternoon light. Yellow taxis weaved through traffic while buses rumbled past. Horns blared. Snatches of conversation in different languages floated through the air. People moved with purpose, flowing around one another like currents in a river.

I made my way toward Union Square, taking in everything around me. Street vendors called out to passersby, the smell of roasted nuts mixed with exhaust fumes, and musicians filled corners with music that seemed to blend into the city’s rhythm. Everywhere I looked, there was movement, color, and life.

It was big.

It was beautiful.

It was loud.

And there were people everywhere.

Standing in the middle of it all, surrounded by the endless pulse of New York City, I felt both incredibly small and completely alive.

As I wandered through the streets of Manhattan, my head tilted upward, my eyes darting from one towering building to the next, it must have been obvious that I wasn’t from here. Everything about me probably screamed tourist. Yet no one seemed to notice. Thousands of people hurried past without so much as a glance in my direction. No curious stares. No greetings. No acknowledgment at all.

In a strange way, I found comfort in that.

Back home, everyone knew everyone. A trip to the grocery store could easily turn into an hour-long conversation with neighbors, friends, or distant relatives. Here, I was just another face in the crowd, swallowed by a city of millions.

I walked slowly, taking it all in. The towering skyscrapers, the flashing signs, and the constant hum of life that never seemed to pause. Every corner offered something new to see. I felt as though I had stepped into a movie.

As I drifted through the city, my thoughts carried me thousands of miles away, back to Trinidad and Tobago.

The contrast was impossible to ignore.

The busy streets of New York were worlds apart from the life I had known growing up in Sangre Grande—“Sandy Grande,” as everyone called it. Nestled in the northeastern part of Trinidad, it was a place where people greeted one another by name and life moved at a slower pace.

My childhood had been filled with both joy and hardships.

Raised by a single mother alongside my two siblings, I learned early that survival required sacrifice. Every dollar was stretched as far as possible. Every opportunity mattered.

My mother carried the weight of our family on her shoulders.

I often remember her coming home exhausted after long days of work, yet somehow still finding the strength to cook dinner, help with schoolwork, and make sure we never felt the full burden of what she was carrying. Looking back, I don’t know how she did it.

The decision to leave Trinidad had not been an easy one.

I can still picture the look on my mother’s face when I told her I was leaving. We sat together in the small living room that had witnessed so much of our lives. The words were difficult to say.

“I’m going to New York,” I told her. “I want to build a better life. I want to help you and my siblings.”

Finding a job in my hometown was incredibly difficult. Without work, I had no money to help my mom, and that was the only reason I was leaving.

She understood why I wanted to go, but understanding didn’t make it hurt any less.

Leaving meant saying goodbye to the only home I had ever known. It meant leaving behind my mother, my brother, my sister, and the familiar streets that had shaped me. For the first time in my life, I would be completely on my own in a foreign country.

Even finding the money to leave had been a struggle.

Every dollar had been carefully saved, borrowed, or sacrificed. There were moments when the dream seemed impossible. But somehow, piece by piece, we made it happen.

Part of what gave us courage was knowing that my uncle was already in New York.

My mother’s brother had always been more than an uncle to us. In many ways, he was the closest thing we had to a father figure. My mother had supported him through much of his life, and over the years he had built a successful life for himself in America. When he offered me a place to stay, it felt like a lifeline—a chance to start over without having to face the city entirely alone.

The opportunity was filled with hope, but it carried its own sadness as well.

Every step forward seemed to require leaving something behind.

Lost in these thoughts, I barely noticed where I was going until I collided with someone.

“Watch it!” a man snapped as he brushed past me.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

The brief encounter jolted me back to reality. The sounds of the city rushed back into focus—the blaring horns, distant sirens, conversations blending together in a dozen different accents.

I stood there for a moment and smiled to myself.

I was no longer just a girl from Sangre Grande.

I am Susan Thomas, a twenty-two-year-old woman, standing in the middle of New York City with nothing but determination, a suitcase full of dreams, and a pledge I had made to my family.

I didn’t know exactly what the future held, but I knew why I had come.

I was prepared to work hard, to make sacrifices, and to seize every opportunity that came my way. Somewhere in this enormous city was the life I had imagined for myself—a chance to become independent, support my family back home, and build a future that poverty could no longer define.

For the first time since arriving, that future felt real enough to reach out and touch.

After nearly three hours of wandering through Manhattan, my feet ached, but my excitement had not faded. The city had overwhelmed my senses in the best possible way. Reluctantly, I retraced my steps, descended into the subway station, and followed the map back to Brooklyn.

When I arrived back at my uncle’s apartment, I was looking forward to sharing a meal with him. The smell of the food I had prepared earlier still lingered in the apartment, and I hoped he would appreciate the effort.

The excitement of the day had finally begun to fade. After hours of sightseeing, I sat quietly on the sofa, weary but content, waiting for my uncle to walk through the front door.

When he finally came, I stood up with a smile.

The smile disappeared almost instantly.

My uncle wasn’t alone.

A woman followed him inside, laughing softly at something he had said. He glanced at me only briefly, his expression hard and distant. He didn’t have to say a word. The look alone was enough.

It meant I had to leave.

My breath caught in my throat as I stared at my uncle. There was no sympathy in his eyes, no hint of concern—only a cold indifference that left me speechless.

“Good evening,” I managed to say.

He barely acknowledged me.

I grabbed what I could and hurried toward the door. In my haste, I forgot my jacket draped over the sofa.

The apartment door clicked shut behind me.

The hallway felt colder than ever.

I wrapped my arms around myself and sat on the hard floor beside the elevator, listening to the muffled sounds of laughter filtering through the apartment door. Minutes stretched into hours. The cold crept into my bones. My eyelids grew heavy, but every time I began to drift off, the chill jolted me awake.

Three hours later, the apartment door finally opened.

The woman stepped out, her perfume lingering briefly in the air as she walked away.

Only then was I allowed to go back inside.

The apartment felt warm, but the warmth couldn’t reach the frustration I carried inside.

I went straight to the bathroom and turned the shower knob as far as it would go. Steam quickly filled the room. I stood beneath the hot water, letting it sting my frozen skin until feeling slowly returned to my fingers and toes.

Afterward, I headed to the kitchen, eager for the meal I had prepared earlier.

The sight that greeted me stopped me in my tracks.

Dirty plates covered the counter. Pots and utensils were piled in the sink. The food was gone.

Every bit of it.

For a moment, I simply stared.

My stomach growled.

I closed my eyes and swallowed the disappointment.

Without saying a word, I rolled up my sleeves and began washing the dishes.

By the time I finished cleaning, exhaustion had settled over me like a heavy blanket.

I changed into my pajamas and lay down on the sofa that served as my bed.

The darkness seemed heavier that night.

My stomach ached with hunger, but I forced myself to focus on the future rather than the present.

“It will be better tomorrow,” I whispered into the silence.

The words felt fragile, but they were enough.

Eventually, sleep carried me away.