“Thank you, dear. Have some cookies, they’re fresh from the bakery,” he would reply, handing me a small paper bag of lemon squares.

Two years ago, Mr. Abernathy passed away at the age of 84.

His children, who lived in California and had no interest in the building, quickly sold it to a corporate real estate developer, Sterling Heights LLC, run by a man named Mr. Sterling.

Mr. Sterling was a cold, sharp-faced investor. He immediately hired a property management company, stopped cleaning the lobby, and ignored repair requests. The building began to feel neglected. The light bulbs in the hallway burned out and were never replaced. The lobby window boxes I had cared for were thrown away.

Then, on a rainy Tuesday morning, the notice was slipped under my door.

My rent was going from $900 to $1,500.

My legs felt weak. I sat down on a half-taped cardboard box. The white paper was trembling in my hand. I worked 40 hours a week scooping mashed potatoes and wiping tables in the school cafeteria. I made $14.50 an hour. I simply did not have an extra $600 a month.

I went to Mr. Sterling’s leasing office downtown the next day. I wore my cafeteria scrubs because I had gone during my lunch break.

“It’s just a market rate adjustment, Evelyn. You can’t expect to live here below value forever,” Mr. Sterling said. He didn’t even look up from his tablet. He was wearing a dark gray suit that probably cost more than my monthly salary.

“Please,” I whispered, my throat tight. “I’ve been here 11 years. I’ve never paid late. I just need 90 days. I can’t find a place I can afford in 30 days. The waitlists for public housing are years long.”

“The law says 30 days,” Mr. Sterling replied, finally looking at me with a cold, polite smile. “Business is business. If you can’t pay, you need to vacate so we can renovate.”

I didn’t yell. I didn’t scream. My chest felt tight, but I walked away. I bought cheap cardboard boxes from the local grocery store and started packing my life. I felt small, tired, and discarded.

I spent my evenings packing. I packed my grandmother’s ceramic plates, wrapping each one in old newspapers. I packed the photographs of Maya growing up. I packed my blue plastic binder, where I kept all my important documents.