Standing up, I walk to the window that faces the backyard. The grass needs cutting, and the flower beds need weeding.Grandma would have kept everything perfect. She took such pride in this house, in making it a home.
I won’t lose it. I can’t. But next week, I’ll have to start dipping into my savings just to cover the monthly bills. The thought makes my stomach churn.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and I grab it, hoping for a response to one of my job applications. Instead, it’s a text from my friend Esme.
Coffee tomorrow?
I type back quickly.Can’t afford it right now. Even the thought of spending five dollars seems wasteful.
Three dots appear immediately, then:My treat. You need to get out of that house.
She’s right. I’ve been holed up here for two weeks, alternating between job hunting and wallowing. But the thought of sitting in a coffee shop, pretending everything is fine while Esme talks about her life, makes my stomach twist.
Rain check?
Alexa Costello, you will meet me at Cup O Jane at ten AM or I’m coming over there and dragging you out myself.
I can’t help but smile. Esme has been my best friend since high school, and she’s never been one to take no for an answer.
Fine. :)
Great.
I set the phone down and take a deep breath. Maybe getting out will help. Maybe I’ll see a “help wanted” sign somewhere, or maybe talking to Esme will give me a new perspective.
The sound of Ash’s pencil tapping against his desk drifts down the hallway. At least he’s doing his homework without being reminded. That’s something, I suppose.
Walking back to my laptop, I open up another job-search website. Therehasto be something out there. Marketing coordinator positions, administrative assistant roles, even retail jobs. I’m not picky at this point.
An hour later, I’ve submitted three more applications, and my eyes are burning from staring at the screen. The house feels too quiet, too heavy with worry.
I check on Ash, who’s sprawled on his bedroom floor working on math problems. Comic books are scattered around him, and his desk lamp casts a warm glow over his messy brown hair.
“How’s it going?”
“Good. Just finishing up.” He doesn’t look up from his worksheet. “Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Are we going to be okay?”
The question hits me like a punch to the chest. He’s nine years old. He shouldn’t have to worry about whether we’re going to be okay.
I sit on the edge of his bed. “Of course we are. Why would you ask that?”
He shrugs, still focused on his math. “I heard you crying last night. And you’ve been on your computer a lot.”
Smart kid. Too smart sometimes.
“I was feeling a little sad about losing my job,” I say carefully. “But I’m looking for a new one, and I’m confident I’ll find something soon.”
“What if you don’t?”
“Then I’ll find something else. Maybe not in marketing, but something. The important thing is that we’re together and we’re healthy.”
He nods, seemingly satisfied with that answer. “Can I have mac and cheese for dinner?”
“Of course.”
