Family Landlords Raise the Rent to Force One Sister Out
The studio had only one window in the kitchen area, a deep sill that looked out over the small gravel alley behind the building where a neighbor’s climbing hydrangea had died back for the winter.
At two o’clock, I carried my three potted ferns from the cardboard box near the bed and set them along the wooden sill, adjusting their plastic saucers so they were perfectly aligned.
These plants had spent three weeks in my bedroom closet at the old apartment, hidden away from Vanessa’s habit of leaving her wet towels on every flat surface.
Two of the fronds had turned yellow from the dark, but the center stems were still green and firm, reaching up toward the soft gray light that filtered through the glass.
I used a small glass measuring cup to water each one, watching the dry soil turn dark and rich as it absorbed the moisture.
My mother had always kept plastic ivy in the brick house on Thirty-Fourth Street, claiming that real plants were too messy and required too much attention.
