I am a single mother of two children, each with a different father. I am a hussy, a welfare rider -- burden to everyone and everything. I am anything you want me to be -- a faceless number who has no story.

My daughter's father has a job and makes over two grand a month; my son's father owns blue-chip stock in AT&T, Disney, and Campbell's. I call the welfare office, gather old bills, look for day care, write for my degree project, graduate with my son slung on my hip, breast-feeding.

At the welfare office they tell me to follow one of the caseworkers into a small room without windows. The caseworker hands me a packet and a pencil. There is an older woman with graying hair and polyester pants with the same pencil and packet. I glance at her, she looks at me, we are both ashamed. I try hard to fill out the packet correctly, answering all the questions. I am nervous. There are so many questions that near the end I start to get careless. I just want to leave. I hand the caseworker the packet in an envelope; she asks for my pencil, does not look at me. I exit unnoticed. For five years I've exited unnoticed. I can't imagine how to get a job. I ride the bus home.

After a few weeks a letter arrives assigning me to 'Group 3.' I don't even finish reading it. I put my son in his stroller and walk to the food shelf.

My grandmother calls later to tell me that I confuse sex with love. I tell her that I am getting a job. She asks what kind. I say, 'Any job.'

'Oh, Annie,' she says. 'Don't do that. You have a degree. Wait.'

I say, 'I can't, Gram, I've got to feed my kids, I have no one to fall back on.' She is silent. I grasp the cord. I know I cannot ask for help.

It is 5 a.m. My alarm wakes up my kids. I try nursing my son back to sleep, but my daughter keeps him up with her questions: 'Don't go out without telling me. Who's going to take care of us when you leave? What time is it?' I want to cry. It is still dark and I am exhausted. I've had three hours of sleep. I get ready for work, put some laundry in the washer, make breakfast, set out clothes for the kids, make lunches. I carry my son; my daughter follows. They cling to me. They cry when I leave. I see their faces pressed against the porch window and the sitter trying to get them inside.