An Invisible Thread: A Young Readers' Edition - Softcover

Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Laura Schroff is a former advertising sales executive who worked for over thirty years with several major media companies and publications, including Time Inc. and People. Her book, An Invisible Thread, became an instant New York Times bestselling book and later was a #1 New York Times and international bestseller. As a keynote speaker at over 300 events for schools, charity organizations, libraries, and bookstores, Laura encourages her audience to look for their own invisible thread connections and highlights the importance of opening up their eyes and hearts to the opportunities where they can make a difference in the lives of others. She lives in Westchester, New York, with her feisty poodle, Emma.

Alex Tresniowski is a writer and bestselling author who lives and works in New York. He was a writer for both Time and People magazines, handling mostly human-interest stories. He is the author or coauthor of more than twenty books. For more about this story and the author, please visit AlexTres.com.

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An Invisible Thread

1

MAURICE WOKE UP IN the closet.

This was where he woke up most mornings. A small, dark closet. He slept there because it was the only quiet place in the apartment where he lived. The apartment was only one room, and sometimes as many as eleven people lived and slept there at the same time. The room had only two single beds, where his two older sisters slept, and his aunt, and maybe a cousin or two. The beds had no pillows, no blankets. Over in one corner there was a chair and on the opposite side was a half a fridge and a small TV. And that was it.

There were always at least four or five grown-ups around, staying up late and making lots of noise. That’s why, some nights, Maurice sneaked away to the closet, closed the door behind him, curled up, and drifted to sleep on a thin mat on the floor. It was a little cramped, and kind of spooky, but at least it was his own private space.

Maurice was eleven years old. He was tall for his age, but skinnier than most of the other eleven-year-olds he knew. His burgundy sweatpants, which were a few sizes too big, barely stayed up on his waist. He had no choice but to wear them, even when they were dirty, which they always were, because they were the only pants he owned.

On this September morning Maurice woke and eased open the closet door. He stretched his long arms up toward the sky and looked around the apartment. Since there were no curtains on the windows, the room was filled with sunlight. Even so, everyone in the room was still asleep. Maurice counted the people—one, two, three . . . ten. Ten people, not including him. His mother, Darcella, was sleeping. Maurice went over and nudged her shoulder to see if she would budge, but he had no luck. His mother had a funny look on her face that Maurice was very used to seeing. The look meant she was off by herself in some far-off world, and she couldn’t be reached.

Maurice’s mother was sick. He understood that. He wasn’t sure what her sickness was, or why it made her act the way she did. He just knew that Darcella couldn’t always be like other moms. She couldn’t always buy him new clothes, for instance, or make sure he had a warm bed to sleep in. She couldn’t always remember if he was fed every day. Stuff like that.

But just because she was sick didn’t mean she didn’t love him. Maurice knew his mother loved him more than anything in the world. She just couldn’t always show it, because of her sickness.

Over in the corner, in the only chair in the room, sat Maurice’s grandmother, Rose, her eyes closed. Maurice couldn’t tell if she was asleep or just resting. Either way, he didn’t want to go near her. Grandma Rose was a tough lady. She was a tiny little thing, just shy of five feet, but she wasn’t afraid of anything or anybody. Grandma Rose spoke her mind and said whatever she was thinking, even if it upset everyone around her. And if someone got sassy with her, she might even take a swing at them. Knock them right in the nose. People in their community knew Grandma Rose didn’t take well to being disrespected. The way to deal with Grandma Rose was to just let her be.

Yet when it came to Maurice, Grandma Rose was sweet and kind. She had a real soft spot for her grandson. “You’re a good child,” she told him all the time. Grandma Rose looked out for Maurice and made sure he knew she’d always be there to protect him. For Maurice, Grandma Rose’s attention was like a great big beautiful gift, and he loved her just like he loved his mother. For a brief moment he thought about going to her chair and nudging her to see if she was awake, just to have someone to talk to, but he decided against it. Better to just let her be.

Maurice looked around the apartment. His two sisters, Celeste and LaToya, were asleep on one bed as usual, twisted around each other, arms and legs everywhere. Maurice’s aunt and her two young children, Maurice’s cousins, were asleep on the other single bed. Three grown men were asleep on the floor. Maurice recognized them—they were his uncles. Uncle Juice, Uncle Big, and Uncle Old. Maurice’s uncles came and went from the apartment, and Maurice never knew if they would be there or not. Sometimes they stuck around for a few weeks; other times they just dropped in for a little while. Maurice had three other uncles, and sometimes they slept there too. They were all nice to him most of the time, but they all seemed too busy to be bothered with him much. Mostly they ignored him.

Maurice understood that the adults in his life didn’t have much time for children. That’s just the way it was. As far as Maurice knew, it was the same for kids everywhere. So why would his life be any different?

Maurice went over to the small, half-size refrigerator that was sitting on the floor of the apartment. A tiny television sat on top of it. Maurice opened the fridge and looked inside. The lightbulb was missing, but he could still make out the layer of grime coating the single shelf. And he could tell there was no food. No milk or butter or cheese slices or anything. Just a bottle of water and a box of baking soda, which Maurice knew not to touch. Another side effect of his mother’s sickness—she couldn’t always remember to stock the fridge.

Maurice felt a familiar pang in his stomach. It felt like he’d swallowed a heavy rock and now it was just sitting there inside his belly, weighing him down, making him miserable. It was a dull, endless ache. Like someone had punched him in the gut.

Hunger.

Maurice hadn’t eaten anything in two days. Two whole days. His body was crying out for food.

Okay, okay, Maurice thought. Time to find something to eat.



Maurice pulled on his dirty burgundy sweatpants and threw his matching burgundy sweatshirt over his head. Then he slipped his feet into his scuffed-up white sneakers that were one size too small and had ripped shoelaces. He didn’t go into the bathroom to brush his teeth, because he didn’t have a toothbrush. He remembered having one a long time ago, but it disappeared. And, anyway, the bathroom wasn’t even in the apartment. It was down the hall. They shared it with everyone on the floor, and it was almost always occupied.

Maurice didn’t have a lot of things. For instance, he didn’t have a Game Boy, or a football to toss around, or a little race car to wind up and race across the floor, or a bicycle. He didn’t have new sneakers or a winter coat or a hat or gloves or scarf. Come to think of it, he didn’t have a home, either. Not really, anyway—the apartment where his family was staying was only temporary. Every place he’d ever lived was temporary. Soon, Maurice figured, they would get kicked out and have to find another place to live. Homeless is what people called it.

Most kids spend their whole childhood in the same home. In his eleven years, Maurice had already lived in twenty different places.

That’s what it meant to be homeless. It meant never getting to feel like you were safe in one place.

Birthday parties. Maurice didn’t have those, either. He couldn’t remember ever having one. Sometimes he wasn’t even sure how old he was. Was he eleven or twelve? Maybe someone forgot a year in between?

Maurice had...