Elaine Moore had been a fixture on Arborville’s Main Street for so long that most locals barely noticed her anymore. She was a Black woman in her late 50s, her hair cropped short more out of necessity than style. Her skin had grown rough under the sun, with deep lines around her eyes. In her lap rested a small, wrinkled cardboard sign. The words scrawled in black marker read: Used to be somebody.
Life on the street was a relentless string of humiliations. Restaurant owners shooed her off their doorsteps. Mothers pulled their children away. Teenagers taunted her without mercy. She spent her days on a worn bench, enduring pitying stares or worse, complete indifference.
Years earlier, Elaine had served in the Army. But no one cared how she had ended up homeless. As time dragged on, her self-worth wore away, replaced by numb resignation. One hot afternoon, she approached a café to ask about leftover food. The barista barely looked at her, promising only that she could check the side door at closing. Deflated, Elaine returned to…….Read Full Story Here.………………….
