Sara Bareilles played softly through the surround-sound speakers of my husbandâ€™s 2003 Mercedes Kompressor as I sat idling at a light. Iâ€™d never been to this church before, but I could see it from where I was, across from an old park, abandoned in the chilly September air. The clouds hung low as I pulled the sleek, pewter machine into the lot. But I wasnâ€™t going to pray or attend services. I was picking up food stamps.
Even then, I couldnâ€™t quite believe it.Â This wasnâ€™t supposed to happen to people like me.