Two Doors Down

A Story of Connection in a Temporary World

When my family and I moved into the motel, I promised I wouldn’t get attached to anyone. Attachments felt dangerous in a place like this, where loyalty stretched only as far as someone’s ability to pay. Room 2015 was supposed to be a temporary stop, a place to catch our breath while we figured out what came next. I told myself we’d keep our heads down, stay out of everyone’s way, and focus on getting out of here.

Then we met Gloria.

She was here before us, living in Room 2017. Her kids stayed with her on the weekends: daughter Maggie and son Ricky. Gloria worked as a housekeeper, her hands always red and cracked from scrubbing too many toilets and mopping endless miles of tile. But she carried herself with a sharp wit and a kind of humor that could make you forget, even for a moment, just how unforgiving this place could be.

My daughter Kara and Maggie became inseparable within days. They’re both 10, almost 11, and that was all the common ground they needed. They’d skate up and down the parking lot on their rollerblades and skateboards, shouting and laughing like the world wasn’t crumbling around them. Some days they’d play volleyball or kickball. Other days they’d race through the courtyard, Maggie calling out challenges while Kara chased her, determined not to lose. Ricky, the quieter one, sometimes joined them, especially when they needed someone to keep score or referee. Kara liked him because he always let her win small arguments.

Watching them, I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope. For Kara’s sake, I told myself. It was good for her to have a friend. But the truth was, I needed Gloria just as much.

We started hanging out in the evenings, sitting outside our rooms with tall cans of Steel Reserve. We’d watch the kids, share stories about the lives we’d left behind, and swap advice about how to survive the motel’s endless grind. Gloria had this way of cutting through the noise, of making me feel like we could handle whatever the next day threw at us.

“She’s your mini-me,” Gloria said once, nodding toward Kara as she skated past.

“Yours too,” I shot back, and Gloria laughed, lifting her can in a mock toast.

She became my best friend in this place.

And then, just like that, she was gone.

It started with whispers, rumors that Gloria wasn’t pulling her weight at work. “She missed a shift,” someone said. “Didn’t clean the rooms right.” None of it made sense to me—Gloria was one of the hardest workers I knew. But the motel didn’t care about sense.

One day, she came back to her room with a folded paper in her hand and tears in her eyes. “They fired me,” she said, her voice hollow.

“What? Why?”

“They didn’t say. Just... I’m out.”

She was evicted a week later.

“They’re not even giving me time to figure something out,” she said that night as we sat out front, our cans of malt liquor untouched. “I thought... I thought I could trust them.”

I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to rage at the front desk staff, the people who’d pretended to be her friends while quietly writing her off. But what would that change?

The last night she was here, Maggie and Kara raced through the parking lot one more time, their laughter ringing out under the flickering lights. Ricky sat on the curb, calling out rules for their game of chase, while Gloria leaned her head on my shoulder. I let her.

“I’ll figure something out,” she said, her voice tired but still trying.

“I know you will,” I replied, my chest aching.

When the moving truck pulled up the next morning, Kara and I stood in the doorway, watching as Maggie waved goodbye. Gloria hugged me tight, whispered, “Thank you,” and then they were gone.

The courtyard feels emptier now, quieter. I catch myself glancing at Room 2017, expecting to see Gloria in the doorway, a Steel Reserve in her hand and a story on her lips. Kara refuses to skate anymore, claiming it’s “boring without Maggie.” I watch her sometimes, sitting on the curb where Ricky used to sit, her skateboard discarded beside her, as if she’s waiting for someone to show up and start a new game.

Losing Gloria hurts in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I spent so much time building walls, convincing myself that the people here didn’t matter, that none of this was permanent. But Gloria slipped through those walls like water through cracks. She made this place feel like something more than just survival.

Friendship at the motel isn’t easy. It’s risky, messy, and more often than not, it ends in heartbreak. But I wouldn’t trade the time I had with Gloria for anything. She made this place bearable. She made me laugh, made me feel seen.

Even now, I hear her voice, laughing at something ridiculous Maggie said, or calling out to Ricky and Kara to slow down before they chase the ball into traffic. I see her in the way Kara sits quietly now, the way she drags her finger across the curb, lost in her own thoughts.

The motel teaches you to survive, to let go, to keep moving. But Gloria taught me something else—that even in a place like this, even when you think you can’t afford it, there’s room for connection. And when that connection is gone, it leaves a space behind that never really closes.

I don’t know where Gloria and her kids will end up. I hope they find a place that treats them better than this one did. And as much as it hurts to have lost them, I’m glad I let myself care. Because for a little while, they made this broken little world brighter.