Part 3
The drive home was a blur of red brake lights and familiar intersections. Christine pulled her sedan into the cracked asphalt lot of her apartment complex and shifted into park. She sat there for an extra minute, the engine ticking as it cooled, and pressed her forehead against the steering wheel. She needed to smooth the panic out of her face before walking through the front door.
She turned the key in the lock. The apartment was small and dim, smelling faintly of boiled pasta and the cheap lemon cleaner her mother insisted on using.
Her mother, Isabel, was sitting in the worn armchair by the window, slowly rubbing her arthritic knees. At the small kitchen table, Louise was hunched over her math workbook, chewing on the end of a yellow pencil.
“You’re home early,” Isabel said. She gripped the padded arms of the chair, wincing as she shifted her weight to stand.
“Stay sitting, Mom,” Christine said. She dropped her purse onto the kitchen counter. The heavy thud of the bag sounded too loud in the quiet room.
Louise looked up, pushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Did your shift get cut?”
Christine pulled out a chair and sat down across from her daughter. She didn’t want to sugarcoat it, but she didn’t want to scare them either. She kept her voice steady. “I got let go today.”
Isabel froze, her hand still resting on her knee. “What? Why? You haven’t even been there a month.”
Christine explained it simply. She told them about the old man in the heavy jacket, the forgotten wallet, the thirty-two dollars she pulled from her own purse, and the strict corporate policy Gary had enforced in the back office.
As she spoke, she watched her mother’s face tighten. Christine knew exactly what Isabel was doing: running the grim, familiar arithmetic of poverty in her head, calculating which bills would bounce next week and which groceries they could stretch.
Louise put her pencil down. She didn’t cry or ask about her school shoes. Instead, she slid out of her chair, walked around the table, and wrapped her arms tightly around Christine’s neck.
“You did the right thing,” Louise murmured into her shoulder.
Christine closed her eyes and hugged the girl back, resting her chin on her daughter’s shoulder. “I know, sweetie. I just… I have to find something else fast.”
The silence in the kitchen stretched out, heavy and uncertain. Isabel was just opening her mouth, likely to suggest checking the temp agencies in the morning, when Christine’s cell phone buzzed on the counter.
The screen lit up with an unfamiliar local number. Christine stared at it. Her stomach tightened. Her first thought was that Gary was calling to demand she return her uniform shirts before they would issue her final paycheck.
She cleared her throat, swiped the screen, and brought the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Hi, is this Christine?” The voice on the other end was male, deep, and steady.
“Yes, speaking.”
“My name is Oliver. You don’t know me, but my father is Louis. The man you helped at the gas station this afternoon.”
Christine straightened in her chair, surprised. “Oh. Is he okay?”
“He’s home, and he’s safe,” Oliver said. He let out a long exhale that sounded like pure, exhausted relief. “He told me what happened. He still had the receipt with your name on it. I went down to the station to pay you back, and the kid working the register told me management let you go. Christine, I am so incredibly sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” she said, glancing at her mother. “Or your dad’s. I knew the rules when I did it.”
“Listen, I’d like to come by, if that’s alright,” Oliver said. “To drop off the money my dad owes you. I know it doesn’t fix the job, but it’s the absolute least we can do.”
Christine hesitated. She looked around the cramped, messy apartment. But she desperately needed that thirty-two dollars back to buy groceries for the rest of the week. She gave him the address.