Emily's POV
The plate slipped through my fingers before I noticed the pounding on the door.
Cold dishwater splashed my shirt as the broken ceramic clanged against the metal sink. I froze at the kitchen counter, soap bubbles slipping off my hands, while hearing the footsteps in the hallway...loud, deliberate, and angry.
"Emily!" The voice rattled through our apartment door. "I know you're in there!"
My stomach dropped. Mr. Grissom. Again.
Behind me, the television blared some game show Mom wasn't really watching. The sound felt obscene against the silence I was holding in my chest, that moment of stillness before everything crashes down.
"Mommy?" Lily's small voice came from the doorway. "Who's that?"
I turned, forcing my face into something I hoped looked calm. Lily stood in her too-small school uniform, the hem hitting above her knees now, clutching Mr. Hops against her chest. Her blue eyes, Tom's eyes, were too knowing for seven years old.
"Just someone looking for the wrong apartment, sweetheart."
The lie tasted bitter. She knew. She always knew.
"But..."
"Lily, baby, go to your room and finish your homework, okay?" My voice cracked despite my best efforts. "I'll call you when dinner's ready."
She hesitated, and I watched her make the decision to protect me by pretending to believe. She nodded, turning toward the hallway. My daughter was learning to lie too.
I waited until her door clicked shut before I let out the breath I'd been holding.
The pounding started again. Harder this time.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
"I've had enough of this!" Mr. Grissom's voice carried through the door, down the hallway, into every neighbor's apartment. "Four months! FOUR MONTHS!"
Heat crawled up my neck. Mrs. Johnson was probably listening from next door. The Weinstein's above us. Everyone would know. Everyone would know Emily Greene couldn't pay her rent, couldn't take care of her family, couldn't....
My hand was on the doorknob before I decided to move.
Maybe he'd accept a partial payment. Maybe I could promise him the rest by next week. Maybe...
I opened the door.
Mr. Grissom's face was the color of beet, his eyes narrowed above those thick gray eyebrows. Behind him, Mrs. Johnson's door stood slightly ajar, and I caught a glimpse of her worried face before she disappeared back inside.
"Mr. Grissom, I'm so..."
"Sorry?" He barked out a sound that might have been a laugh. "You think 'sorry' pays bills?"
"No, I just need..."
"Four months." He held up four fingers, jabbing them toward my face.
"I've been coming here for four months, listening to your excuses.
'Just one more week, Mr. Grissom. My paycheck is coming. Things will get better soon.'" His voice pitched up, mocking. "Well guess what? I'm done."
I gripped the doorframe. "Please, if you could just lower..."
"Lower my voice?" His eyes bulged. "I've been lowering my voice for months! I've been patient. Understanding. Given you chance after chance. And what do I get? Nothing!"
My throat closed. I dug my fingernails into the doorframe, feeling the old paint flake under my nails. Don't cry. Don't you dare cry in front of him.
"I have a family too, you know." His voice dropped, turned cold. "A wife. Kids. Grandkids. You think I can let people live in my building for free because they've got sob stories?"
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
"I don't want to hear about your mother or your daughter." He stepped closer, and I stepped back, into my apartment, into my safe space that suddenly didn't feel safe at all.
"You've got until the end of the month. Three weeks. You come up with every penny you owe me, every single penny, or you're out. You, your daughter, your mother. Out on the street where you belong."
The word hit me like a slap: belong.
"You can't..."
"I can, and I will. The eviction papers are already drawn up, Emily. So start packing, or start praying for a miracle."
He turned and stormed down the hallway, his footsteps echoing long after he disappeared around the corner.
I stood in the doorway, unable to move. Unable to breathe. The game show was still playing in the living room. Mom was still sitting in her chair, staring at the screen like it held answers to questions she'd forgotten asking.
I closed the door.
My legs gave out immediately.
I slid down to the floor, my back against the door, and pressed both hands over my mouth. The sob came anyway, tearing up from somewhere deep in my chest. Tears burned hot down my face, dripped off my jaw, soaked into my collar.
I shook with the effort of staying quiet. Mom couldn't hear. Lily couldn't hear. I had to hold it together. I had to...
Out on the street where you belong.
Five years ago, I'd had everything. A husband who came home smelling like hospital antiseptic and kissed my forehead while Lily climbed his legs like a tree. A savings account. Plans for a bigger place, maybe a second baby, a vacation to somewhere with a beach.
Then... a phone call at 2:00 a.m.
An officer's voice, soft and careful. "There's been an accident. A drunk driver. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Greene."
They told me Tom died instantly, as if that should comfort me. As if dying instantly meant he hadn't felt pain, hadn't known what was happening, hadn't thought of us in those final seconds.
I'd repeated it to myself like a prayer for months: He didn't suffer. He didn't suffer.
Because Tom was good. Tom didn't deserve pain.
Now I was thirty-three, widowed, with a seven-year-old daughter who was learning to lie to protect me, a mother whose mind was disappearing piece by piece, and a mountain of debt I couldn't see the top of.
The life insurance barely covered the funeral. Tom's benefits evaporated with his last breath. And suddenly I was drowning.
The caregiving jobs I'd found paid minimum wage. The hours were brutal, the work exhausting. I'd sold my wedding ring last year. Tom's watch six months ago. The TV three months ago, we were using Mom's old one now.
It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
"Mommy?"
My head snapped up. Lily stood at the end of the hallway, her face pale, Mr. Hops dangling from one hand.
Oh God. How long had she been standing there?
I scrambled to my feet, wiping my face with the back of my hand. "Lily! I thought you were doing your homework."
She walked toward me slowly. "Why are you crying?"
"I'm not crying, baby. I just..."
"That man was really mad." Her voice was so small. "Is he going to make us leave?"
My heart cracked. I knelt down and held out my arms, and she ran into them, burying her face in my shoulder. Her small body trembled.
"No," I lied. The word tasted like ash. "No, baby. Everything's going to be fine. Mommy's going to figure it out. I promise."
"But I heard him yelling."
"That's grown-up stuff." I pulled back to meet her eyes, forcing a smile. "You don't need to worry about that, okay? That's my job."
She nodded, but her eyes stayed worried. My smart, too-observant daughter.
"How about we make dinner?" I said, standing and taking her hand. "What do you want? Mac and cheese?"
"Okay," she said quietly.
From the living room, Mom's confused voice drifted in: "Emily? Is it time for dinner? Where's Tom?"
I closed my eyes. Not tonight. Please, not tonight.
"Tom's working late, Mom," I called back, because it was easier than explaining. Easier than watching her cry for a son-in-law she'd loved and forgotten burying.
Lily looked up at me with those knowing eyes.
"Go wash your hands, sweetie."
Dinner was quiet. Lily pushed pasta around her plate. Mom ate mechanically, her gaze distant. I managed three bites before my stomach rebelled.
After, I tucked Lily into bed, pulling her faded comforter up to her chin.
"I love you, Mommy," she whispered.
"I love you too, baby." I kissed her forehead, breathing in the strawberry scent of her hair. "More than all the stars in the sky."
"Even more than mac and cheese?"
I laughed despite everything. "Even more than that."
After she fell asleep, I helped Mom to bed, changed her into her nightgown, settled her under the covers. She looked so small now. Nothing like the strong woman who'd raised me alone after Dad left, the Alzhemier eating her piece by piece.
"Goodnight, Mom."
"Goodnight, dear." Her eyes were already closing. "Tell Tom I said hello."
I stood in the doorway for a long moment before closing her door.
My phone rang just past midnight, startling me awake from the couch where I'd fallen asleep over unpaid bills.
Unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Greene? This is Sandra from Dr. Landon's office." The nurse's voice was professionally sympathetic. "Your mother's medications are ready for pickup, but insurance didn't cover them.
The total is three hundred and forty-seven dollars. Can you come by tomorrow?"
Three hundred and forty-seven dollars.
I didn't have three hundred and forty-seven dollars.
"Of course," I heard myself say. "First thing in the morning."
The lie came so easily now.
I sat on the couch for a long time after hanging up, staring at the pile of bills on the coffee table. Past due. Past due. Final notice. Past due.
The numbers blurred together. The apartment was silent except for the drip of the kitchen faucet I couldn't afford to fix and the distant sound of traffic outside.
I buried my face in my hands.
"Please," I whispered into the darkness. "Please, just give me a sign. A chance. Something. I can't do this anymore. I'm so tired. Please. Help me."
The apartment stayed silent.
Then, cutting through the quiet, a single car horn blared outside...sharp, insistent, angry.
I didn't move. Didn't think anything of it.
I didn't know yet that somewhere in the city, my prayer had already been answered.