Lydia's POV
The payment notification arrived three days later.
I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in one hand, calculator in the other, pen tapping nervously against my thigh. The numbers glowed on the screen, mocking me with their insufficiency.
I counted. Recounted. Removed some expenses. Added others. Shuffled things around like I was playing a game I could never win.
It still didn't work.
Rent: $1,200. Zoey's medication: $850. Utilities: $180. Food: $300. Transportation: $150. Hospital bills: $600 still unpaid.
My salary: $2,100.
No matter how many times I rearranged the numbers, no matter how creative I tried to be with the math, the truth remained brutally, devastatingly the same.
It wasn't enough.
It would never be enough.
I threw the calculator across the room, watching it bounce off the wall and clatter to the floor. The sound was satisfying for exactly two seconds before the guilt crept in. I couldn't afford to replace it if it broke.
I couldn't afford anything.
My phone sat beside me, heavy with the weight of the call I needed to make. I picked it up, hesitated, then pressed Doris's number before I could talk myself out of it.
She answered on the third ring. "Hey, girl. How's Zoey doing?"
"She's okay. Resting." I paused, swallowing hard. "Doris, I… I don't know how people survive like this."
The silence on the other end told me she understood exactly what I meant.
"They don't," she finally said, her voice low and tired. "They just endure. They just… keep going because stopping isn't an option."
"But how? How do you keep going when there's nothing left?"
"You find something. Anything. You hold onto it like it's the last solid thing in the world." She sighed deeply. "I'm barely making it myself, Lydia. They cut my hours at the restaurant. Rent went up. I'm thinking about getting a second job, maybe night shifts somewhere."
"Doris, no. You're already exhausted all the time."
"So are you," she countered gently. "So is everyone trying to keep their head above water. We're all drowning, Lydia. We're just doing it quietly."
The truth of her words hit me hard. "I wish I could do more. I wish I could help you."
"Just being there helps," she replied. "Just knowing someone else understands. That's worth more than you think."
After we hung up, I sat in the darkness of my room, listening to the sounds of the apartment building settling around me. Somewhere above, a couple was arguing. Below, a baby cried. Outside, sirens wailed in the distance.
This was life. This was survival. And I was so, so tired of fighting.
-----
At work the next day, I moved through my tasks mechanically. Mrs. Whitmore needed her medication at 9 AM. A bath at 11. Lunch at 1 PM. I did everything correctly, efficiently, but my mind was miles away, trapped in calculations and impossible equations.
Karl noticed.
He always seemed to notice.
It was afternoon when he found me in the kitchen, standing at the sink, staring at nothing.
"You haven't eaten," he said, his voice coming from behind me.
I jumped slightly, turning to find him leaning against the doorframe. He was wearing dark slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I'd never really looked at him before—really looked. But now I noticed the way he carried himself, that quiet confidence that came from never having to worry about whether there would be enough money at the end of the month.
He was tall, probably six-two or six-three, with broad shoulders that seemed to fill the doorway. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, as if he'd been running his hands through it. There was a tiredness around his eyes, but they were kind eyes.
"I will eat later," I said, turning back to the sink.
"You should eat now."
His tone wasn't commanding—just concerned. That somehow made it worse. I didn't need his concern. I needed his money, and that thought made me feel small and ashamed.
"I'm fine, Mr. Karl. Really."
He was quiet for a moment, then I heard him move. When I glanced over my shoulder, he was preparing a plate of food from the lunch I'd made earlier for Mrs. Whitmore—grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, fresh bread.
"Here," he said, setting it on the small kitchen table. "Please."
I wanted to refuse. My pride wanted to refuse. But my stomach growled loudly, betraying me.
"Thank you," I said quietly, sitting down.
He didn't leave. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat across from me, scrolling through his phone but somehow still present. It should have been awkward, but it wasn't. The silence felt… comfortable.
I ate slowly, not because I wasn't hungry, but because I didn't want this moment to end. When was the last time someone had thought about whether I'd eaten?
"Your daughter," he said suddenly, looking up from his phone. "How is she doing?"
I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. We'd barely spoken beyond work matters. How did he…
"Mrs. Hale mentioned she was hospitalized. I hope I'm not overstepping by asking."
"No, it's… she's okay. Getting better." I set down my fork, my appetite suddenly gone. "She has leukemia. The treatment is working, but some days are harder than others."
His expression shifted—not to pity, which I couldn't have borne, but to something deeper. Understanding, maybe. "That must be terrifying."
The simple acknowledgment of my fear, without platitudes or false optimism, nearly broke me. "It is," I whispered. "Every single day."
He nodded slowly. "You're handling it with remarkable strength."
"I don't feel strong. I feel like I'm barely holding it together."
"That's what strength looks like," he said quietly. "Holding it together when everything's falling apart."
I looked at him then, really looked at him, and saw something in his eyes that surprised me. He understood. Somehow, this wealthy man in his pristine house with his perfect life understood what it meant to be afraid.
"Thank you for the food," I said, standing abruptly, needing to escape before the tears came. "I should get back to Mrs. Whitmore."
He stood too. "Lydia?"
I paused at the doorway, my back to him.
"If you need anything—time off, schedule adjustments, anything—just ask."
I nodded without turning around and left before he could see my face crumble.
-----
A week later, I noticed my schedule had been adjusted.
My shifts were shorter—six hours instead of eight. But when the payment came through, it was higher than before. Significantly higher.
I stared at my phone in confusion. This had to be a mistake.
I found Karl in his study, working at his desk. The room was lined with bookshelves, filled with leather-bound volumes that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Everything about the space screamed old money, quiet power.
I knocked softly on the open door.
"Yes, come in," he said, looking up from his laptop.
"Good morning, sir— I mean, good evening," I stumbled over the words, suddenly nervous. "I'm sorry to bother you."
"You're not bothering me." He closed his laptop and gave me his full attention. "Is something wrong?"
"I noticed some changes in my work schedule. And my pay." I clutched my phone like a lifeline. "I think there might be a mistake?"
"No mistake." He leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "I felt like doing so."
"But I don't understand…"
"You need to have time for yourself. Time for your daughter." He said it simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "As for the pay increase, I decided to review your compensation. You're doing excellent work with my mother, and you deserve to be paid accordingly."
The smile he put on while saying those words was small but genuine, and something about it made my heart stutter strangely in my chest. It wasn't just kindness. It was something else. Something I couldn't quite name.
"Thank you," I said softly, but the words felt inadequate. "This means… you don't know what this means."
"I have some idea," he replied, his eyes never leaving mine. "Go home early today. Spend the evening with your daughter."
As I turned to leave, I heard him say, almost too quietly to hear: "You're doing better than you think you are, Lydia."
I paused in the doorway, my throat tight with emotion. "Thank you, Mr. Karl."
"Just Karl is fine."
I nodded and left, but his words echoed in my mind all the way home.
-----
Over the following weeks, I began to notice other small changes.
The car keys he'd handed me one rainy evening with a simple: "So you get home safely. Just bring it back tomorrow."
The way he'd started asking Mrs. Hale to prepare extra food, always insisting I take the leftovers home. "It'll just go to waste otherwise."
The medical journal he'd left on the kitchen counter one day, opened to an article about childhood leukemia treatments, with certain passages highlighted. He never mentioned it. Neither did I.
I wanted to ask why he cared.
But something about the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't paying attention made the question unnecessary.
It scared me, how much I'd begun to notice him too.
The way his jaw clenched when he was stressed. The way he loosened his tie when he got home from work, rolling his shoulders like he carried the weight of the world. The rare smile that transformed his entire face from stern to gentle.
The way he moved through the house with quiet purpose, confident but never arrogant. There was a sadness in him, I realized. Something broken that he kept carefully hidden.
We were both broken, I thought. Both trying to hold together something that wanted to fall apart.
-----
One afternoon, Mrs. Hale corrected me sharply about how I'd arranged Mrs. Whitmore's pillows.
"That's not how Mr. Karl prefers them," she said, her tone cutting. "I've told you before…"
"That's enough," Karl said calmly from the doorway.
We both turned to look at him.
"She's doing well," he continued, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Very well, in fact. My mother is more comfortable than she's been in months."
Mrs. Hale's mouth tightened into a thin line. "Of course, Mr. Karl. I was just…"
"I know what you were doing." His tone wasn't harsh, but it was firm. "Please focus on your own responsibilities."
She left quickly, her displeasure evident in every step.
Karl walked over to where I stood, checking his mother's IV line to give myself something to do with my shaking hands.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I didn't mean to cause trouble."
"You didn't. Mrs. Hale forgets herself sometimes." He paused, standing close enough that I could smell his cologne—something woody and expensive. "You're doing an excellent job, Lydia. Don't let anyone make you doubt that."
I looked up at him, and for a moment, our eyes met and held. Something passed between us—recognition, understanding, something unnamed that made my breath catch.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He nodded once, his gaze lingering on my face for a heartbeat longer before he turned and left.
I felt seen. Truly seen. And that unsettled me more than anything else.
Because feeling seen meant being vulnerable. And I couldn't afford to be vulnerable. Not when everything depended on me staying strong, staying focused, staying in control.
But Karl was making that harder and harder to do.
-----
At night, the house felt different.
I'd started staying later when Mrs. Whitmore grew restless, when her breathing became labored and she needed the comfort of someone's presence. Karl would often appear during those times, bringing tea or just sitting quietly in the corner of the room.
We rarely spoke during these vigils. But the silence between us felt heavy with unspoken things. Questions neither of us dared to ask. Feelings neither of us dared to name.
One particularly difficult night, Mrs. Whitmore worsened. Her breathing turned shallow and ragged. I stayed with her, holding her fragile hand, whispering reassurances I wasn't sure she could hear.
"You're safe," I told her softly. "You're not alone. I'm right here."
Karl stood by the window, his back to us, shoulders tense.
"Kindness," Mrs. Whitmore murmured suddenly, her voice barely audible. "So rare here."
Her grip on my hand tightened weakly, and I understood. She was thanking me. She was telling me something about this house, about the life she'd lived here.
Something told me this house didn't want kindness. It wanted silence, control, order. Anything soft got crushed.
I glanced at Karl, still standing at the window, and wondered what kind of childhood he'd had here. What kind of man it had made him.
And I wondered if the kindness I saw in him now was something he'd fought hard to keep, despite everything this house tried to take from him.
When Mrs. Whitmore finally settled into sleep, Karl walked me out.
"You didn't have to stay so late," he said at the door.
"I know. But I wanted to."
He looked at me for a long moment, something vulnerable flickering across his face. "Thank you. For caring about her. For caring when you didn't have to."
"She's easy to care about," I said truthfully.
"So are you," he said quietly, and before I could respond, he added, "Get home safely. Text me when you arrive."
"You don't have to…"
"I know. But I want to."
The echo of my own words hung between us. I nodded and left, feeling his eyes on me until I turned the corner.