We were fresh graduates with barely a penny to our names. I was hell-bent on starting a business, and Amy did everything she could to support me.
In the beginning, the business was a money pit. Amy worked two day jobs and washed dishes at a restaurant by night. We lived in the grime and chaos of the tenements simply to survive.
Why the top floor?
Because it was the cheapest—$100 less than the fifth floor.
I hated watching her climb those six flights of stairs every day. I wanted to cut costs elsewhere to get her a better place.
But my girl just smiled and waved off my concern.
"Living is living, isn't it? It's only $300 a month. You need capital right now. If we can save, we save."
"Don't feel sorry for me. Think of this as an investment. When you strike it rich, you can pay me back a thousandfold."
"Don't look at this place like it's a prison. Believe me—I won't let myself suffer."
Later, that tiny, three-hundred-square-foot studio became our sanctuary.
Warm, cute bedding.
Floors scrubbed spotless.
A plastic bottle repurposed as a vase, always holding fresh flowers on the small dining table.
Amy had her own ways of showing me how much she loved our home.
How much she loved me.