The Luxury of a Playdate

The hidden costs of poverty I discovered while reporting a story, and why I choose to rebrand the newsletter.

By Aflo Images in Canva. Ever think about the costs of having a friend?

I struggled to hold myself together. A playdate?

Yes, she replied, amused by my bewilderment.

I looked around. Her kitchen sink was full of dishes, a medicine cabinet for her medication, plush white carpet. I imagined the boys playing here, laughing, showing each other their toys. Their life really had changed.

The last time I saw this mother and son was in December. The homeless shelters were overcrowded, so the county placed them in a mice-infested motel. They didn’t have a kitchen, so they washed dishes in the bathroom sink. There were no cabinets, so medication bottles were spread across a table beneath the mounted television. I spent several hours over multiple days with them, documenting how they survived on a little over $200 a month in federal food assistance. But one of the most powerful moments of that reporting experience never made it into the story.

I remember my feet hurting, feeling cold and hungry after more than six hours in 28-degree weather, tagging along on a trip to Walmart and back. They left a third of the groceries they wanted behind because the money wasn’t enough. The ten-year-old, who had waited all day and night for dinner, was finally enjoying his air-fryer chicken nuggets and rice at 9:30 p.m. Conscious of the mice skirting back and forth across the floor, I thanked my lucky stars for my thick winter boots and kept my backpack off the ground. My colleague, a photojournalist with clearly more stamina than I had, finally said he had what he needed, and we began packing our things.

Then the child, who is autistic, had an episode. He threw himself against the wall, slammed doors, cried, hurled whatever he could reach. His mother struggled to hold and calm him while apologizing profusely. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “He’s upset that you all are leaving, because we never have guests over for dinner.”

I felt my empty stomach drop inside itself.

Of course they never had anyone over. They didn’t have a home. They barely had food for themselves. What would they offer visitors? Poverty didn’t just take the house, it took the guests.

I had covered poverty for years and somehow never counted isolation among its costs. Not until a ten-year-old grieved the end of a dinner party that was actually a reporting visit. We, a reporter and a photographer, taking notes and photos while he ate his chicken nuggets, were the closest thing he’d had to company in months.

Is it a coincidence that a loneliness epidemic is unfolding alongside an affordability crisis? Community is one of the most valuable things we have, and it turns out it costs money too.

I thought about his isolation as I drove home. I thought about it again as I pulled leftovers from my full fridge to make a late night dinner. I thought about it that weekend when the neighbors came over with their children to play. What must it do to a child to be isolated because of poverty?

Now, seven months since the story ran, members of the community have stepped in to support this mother and son, and the county found them a townhome through an affordable housing agreement with a developer. Their situation, though far from perfect, is much better.

It has been one of those moments that reminds me why I love being a reporter, watching people be moved by a story and then actually do something about it.

Which brings me back to the playdate.

As a mother, my heart couldn’t help but swell, watching him happily greet us and give us a tour of his home and toys when we arrived. I knew he did the same for his other guests.

And this time, when we said our goodbyes and promised to visit again, he calmly hugged us at the door and said see ya later.

Rebrand!

Yes, the newsletter looks different. I’m rebranding because I want it to be clearer what you get by being part of this community.

The news has me running 24 hours a day. Substack is where I slow down and take in moments. The scene that got cut in editing. The sentence a mother said that I couldn’t stop hearing. The thought too convoluted for a four-minute radio piece but too important to leave in my notebook.

What I want this to be now is the place we proces together. Every other Sunday, one story. Have a coffee (or a cocktail) and process a moment with me. Dive into my thinking.

Let me know what you think. I read everything.

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