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I sighed, my chest tightening. “Not great. It’s… it’s getting worse.”
“Damn,” Helen murmured. “And Brenda? She helping out at all?”
The mention of Brenda sparked a flare of anger in me, but I quenched it with practiced ease. “Not really. She’s got her own concerns.”
Helen snorted.
I didn’t reply; I didn’t need to. We both knew where Brenda’s priorities lay.
After Helen left, I found myself alone again with my thoughts and the echo of my scrubbing. Each stroke of the brush was a battle against the grime and against despair.
The next day was no different. My hands moved on autopilot as I changed linens and dusted shelves, but my mind was elsewhere—on medical charts and bills with too many zeros.
By the time my shift ended, my feet were bricks dragging across the plush carpet of the hotel corridors. My body moved from memory rather than conscious thought as I collected discarded towels and wiped down glass surfaces until they shone.
It was past midnight when I finally trudged home. My body craved rest, but sleep was an elusive specter that danced just out of reach each night as I lay in bed counting not sheep but expenses—the cost of medicine, the price of hope.
As dawn broke over another long day, I pulled myself from beneath thin blankets and prepared for another round at Wintertide Hotel—a place where dreams were spun from luxury and laughter while mine frayed at the edges like an old maid’s uniform.
***
The community center hummed with the chatter of children and the shuffle of busy feet. Cassius Portman, Cass to those few who dared shorten his name, stood in the midst of it all, his suit a stark contrast to the worn jeans and knit sweaters around him.
“You really didn’t have to come today,” I said, stacking chairs with more force than necessary.
“I wanted to,” he replied, taking a chair from my hands and setting it down gently. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this place.”
I paused, my arms dropping to my sides as I looked at him. His eyes roamed the room, not with the calculated gaze of a businessman, but with something softer, more human.
“Do you see why we don’t want it demolished?” I ventured.
He nodded slowly. “I can see that now. It’s… it’s important.”
There was an awkward silence then—a shared understanding that his change of heart had come at my expense.
“You know,” he began, leaning against a table, “I’ve been wrong about a lot of things.”
The words hung between us like a fragile truce.
“And about your father…” Cass continued, shifting uncomfortably. “I want to help with the medical expenses.”
His offer sliced through the air, too generous, too easy.
“No.” The word was out before I could think it through. “That’s not your responsibility.”
“But I want to—”
“I can’t let you do that.” My voice held firm despite the tremor in my heart.
Cass let out a breath and ran a hand through his hair—a rare sign of frustration from a man who prided himself on control.
“At least let me hire some help for Chad and Rachel,” he tried again.
“Cassius, I already said no,” I insisted, my voice firm despite the exhaustion.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, the very picture of a man who wasn’t used to being turned down. “I’m not offering you money, Mila. I’m proposing we fund a babysitting service here at the center. It’s for all the families, not just yours.”
I paused, fingers stilling on a crumpled receipt. The gesture wasn’t personal—it was community-oriented. Still, it felt like a lifeline thrown in a stormy sea I was too proud to admit I was drowning in.
