Page 6 of Not My Problem

“Did you eat breakfast?” I asked, heading right to the coffee pot to get my own caffeine.

“No. I’m, uh… I’m not hungry.”

I turned to face her, giving her a stern look. “Not hungry or trying not to be a bother?”

She gave me a look that bordered on belligerent. “I don’t like to owe people favors.”

I rolled my eyes. “Well I’m making breakfast for myself so you might as well join me.”

I examined the contents of the refrigerator and decided to make a scramble with eggs and vegetables.

“Do you need help?” Zoe asked when I pulled out the cutting board to chop up some veggies.

“First breakfast’s free,” I said. “After that, you help.”

“Okay.”

I made quick work of sautéing mushrooms, peppers, and onions with chunks of frozen breakfast sausage before adding some eggs and a dollop of cream cheese. I mixed it up, stirring until the eggs firmed up, then split it between two plates. I put the larger serving in front of Zoe, then grabbed some croissants that I’d picked up at the bakery yesterday during my lunch hour.

I sat down across from her and Zoe watched as I sliced open my croissant and added my scramble to it, making a little sandwich, then she followed suit. She took a big bite, her eyes closing in pleasure.

“This is delicious,” she said.

I felt a rush of pleasure that she liked it. “Thanks. I’m not the best cook so I try to keep things simple.”

We ate in silence for a few minutes, Zoe shoveling food into her mouth like she was afraid that someone would steal it from her. I wasn’t even halfway through my own breakfast when she finished. I went to the counter and brought her another croissant along with butter and jam, sliding it in front of her without a comment.

“Tell me the story of your life.”

Zoe smirked. “The story of my life isn’t even gonna get us out of Chicago,” she quipped.

“You know When Harry Met Sally?” I asked in surprise.

“It was my mom’s favorite movie. We watched it all the time.”

“I used to watch that with my mom when I was younger too,” I admitted. “Before she passed away.”

I didn’t usually talk about my mother. I remembered her as a kind and caring woman who’d done her best to take care of me on her own before a brain aneurism took her from me when I was nine years old. I had no idea who my father was, my birth certificate simply said, ‘Father unknown’. With no family to pass me off to, I’d spent the rest of my youth bouncing around between foster care placements.

Zoe studied me, her gaze astute, but didn’t ask about my mom. I was glad.

“So the story of my life,” she started as she slathered butter and jam on her croissant. “I was born and raised in Chicago. As you heard yesterday, I didn’t know I had any other family. Mom always told me everyone else was dead and I had no reason to doubt that.”

She paused to take a bite of her croissant.

“We moved around a lot, one crappy apartment to another. Mom worked wherever she could… waitressing, factory work, house cleaning. But we were always broke, always skipping out to the next apartment when the eviction notice got posted on the door.”

I gave her a sympathetic look. “That sounds hard.”

She shrugged. “It taught me to be resilient, probably the same way foster care did for you.”

When I didn’t answer she continued, “By the time I was in high school my mother’s drinking was out of control. I was dating this older guy then and I moved in with him for about a year. Then the relationship ended and since then I’ve been renting rooms while working as a waitress and bartender.”

“You never went to college?” I asked. “You seem smart, you probably could have gotten a scholarship.”

That’s what I’d done, but then again, not everyone wanted to go to college.

“I’m not the best reader,” she mumbled, her face turning red with embarrassment. “The words get jumbled. Sometimes the letters look backwards or something. I’m not smart at all. I barely got through high school.”