* Present *
I'm living the dream. If by "dream" you mean the kind where you show up to your third job today without feeling your legs, because the previous two drained you completely.
And that’s exactly what happens every day.
I've been on my feet for nine hours and my shoes are staging a rebellion. Each step feels like walking on thumbtacks dipped in disappointment. My lower back is sending strongly worded complaints to management—which is me, unfortunately.
Table six needs ketchup. Table eight wants their eggs remade because apparently the first batch wasn't "egg-shaped enough." Table twelve just snapped their fingers at me like I'm a particularly slow-responding voice assistant.
I paste on my customer service smile—the one that says "I'm thrilled to be here" while my eyes scream "I'm dead inside"—and deliver ketchup with the enthusiasm of someone who's perfected the art of faking it.
"Valentina!" My manager's voice cuts through the diner noise like a knife through butter.
I pivot toward her, still smiling, because stopping would require energy I don't have. "Yes, Sharon?"
She's got that look. The one that says someone complained and she's about to make it my problem. Her arms are crossed, her expression somewhere between annoyed and constipated.
"Customer at table nine says you're too slow."
Table nine. Guy who's been sitting there for forty-five minutes nursing a single coffee and taking up space that could've turned into tips. But sure, I'm the problem.
"I apologize. I'll move faster."
"You need to." Sharon's tone could freeze hell. "This is unacceptable, Valentina. I can't have servers who drag their feet."
I swallow my pride. It tastes like pennies and desperation. "Actually, Sharon, I wanted to ask—could I pick up an extra shift tomorrow? I could really use the hours."
Her eyebrows shoot up so fast they nearly achieve orbit. "Are you joking? I just told you you're too slow. A customer complained. And you want more shifts?"
"I need the money." The words come out quieter than I intended, stripped of the defensive armor I usually wear.
Sharon studies me for a long moment, and I can see the calculation happening behind her eyes. How desperate is this girl? How much can I exploit this?
It's like watching someone mentally flip through a catalog of human suffering to find the best deal.
Finally, she sighs. "Fine. Six AM tomorrow. But if you can't keep up, I'll find someone else. There's a line of people who want your job, Valentina. Remember that."
"Thank you." I force the words out through clenched teeth. They taste like ashes. "I really appreciate it."
She walks away and I return to my tables, moving faster now because apparently terror is an excellent motivator. Who knew?
By the time I clock out, my feet have filed for divorce and my back is seriously considering workers' comp. I count my tips in the break room—twenty-three dollars and change.
If I were a cartoon character, this is where the sad trombone would play. Probably followed by a piano falling on my head, because why stop at one disaster when you can have two?
The pharmacy is three blocks away and I walk because the bus costs money I don't have. The evening air is cool, almost pleasant, which feels like the universe is mocking me.
‘Look,’ it says, ‘the weather is nice. Too bad everything else in your life is garbage.’
Inside, the fluorescent lights are so bright they feel like judgment. I grab the generic version of Mama's medication, the kind that comes in boring white bottles, and approach the counter.
The pharmacist rings it up. "Thirty-eight fifty."
I count out my bills. Ones and fives, crumpled and soft from being handled too much. Some are torn. One has what might be coffee stains or might be tears. It's hard to tell at this point.
Thirty-eight dollars. Fifty cents. Exactly.
The pharmacist hands me the bag without comment, which I appreciate. Pity would've broken something inside me right now.
The walk home takes fifteen minutes. Our apartment building looks like it gave up on life around the same time I did.
Peeling paint. Broken buzzer. Stairs that creak like they're auditioning for a horror movie. The landlord stopped pretending to care about repairs sometime in the early 2000s.
I unlock the door and step inside. The apartment is small, cramped, and filled with furniture we've had since I was a kid. Everything is worn but clean, because Mama always insisted on clean even when we couldn't afford new.
She lies on the couch under a thin blanket that's seen better decades. Her face is pale, almost gray, and when she coughs it sounds like something breaking inside her chest. Each cough makes me flinch.
"Hey, Mama." I inject false cheer into my voice, the same customer service brightness I use at the diner. "Look what I brought."
I hold up the pharmacy bag like it's a prize. Like these generic pills are somehow going to fix everything despite both of us knowing better.
She waves a hand dismissively. "Valentina, no. Those are a waste of money."
"They're not a waste—"
"They are." She sits up slightly, and the effort makes her breathe hard. "We both know what I need. Chemotherapy. Real treatment. And we cannot afford it."
"I'll find a way." I sit beside her, setting the pills on the coffee table between us like they're evidence in my favor. "I picked up an extra shift. I'll pick up more. I'll—"
"Work yourself to death?" Her eyes, still sharp despite everything, pin me in place. "That is your plan? Kill yourself slowly so I can die slower?"
"Don't say that." I flinch and my chest hurts, but I know that hers hurts worse.
"Why not?" She reaches for my hand, her grip weaker than it used to be but still determined. "I have already lived my life, figlia. I married your father. I raised you. I was happy. You should save yourself. Live your life. Not spend every penny on a dying old woman."
The words hit like physical blows. "You're not dying. Not if I can help it."
"Valentina…"
"No." I press the pill bottle into her hand, closing her fingers around it. "You take these, you rest, and I will figure something out. I always do."
It's a lie and we both know it. I haven't figured anything out in five years, I've barely survived. But hope is cheaper than medication, so I'm selling it hard.
Mama looks at me and I see it in her eyes. The recognition. The sadness.
"You are so much like your father…" she whispers. "Stubborn and impossible and too proud to know when you are fighting a battle you cannot win."
She squeezes my hand, her skin paper-thin and cold. For a moment we sit there in silence, two women who've lost too much, holding onto each other because it's all we have left.
She doesn't argue anymore. She just holds my hand.
And I pretend not to notice that we're both crying.