I’m not her maid. But as much as I love her, I don’t trust her with the plates I eat from either.
We fall into a rhythm—figuring out who handles what, how to keep the place from collapsing into a disaster, at least make it look halfway presentable on the daily. It’s comfortable in a strange, grown-up way.
Like we’ve somehow slipped into being real adults—managing bills, pretending we’ve got life under control even when we’re mostly just winging it.
Meanwhile, I’m still stuck working at Eddie’s, crawling through every shift like it’s slowly killing me.
The place looks rundown as hell—cracked tiles, peeling booths, sticky tables—but the people inside act like it’s five-star dining. Privileged assholes snapping their fingers, looking right through me until they need a refill. Half of them don’t even glance at me when they order, like the food just appears out of thin air.
God forbid they saythank you.
It’s the kind of job that eats at you slow. Every fake smile, everyyes, ma’amI choke out, chips away at something inside me. And the worst part is, it makes me feel just like my mother always did—small and invisible.
Yet you’ll find me there, five days out the week, wiping tables in a dump full of people who think they’re too good for fucking manners.
It’s been almost a year since I last spoke to her. And I don’t plan too. Every conversation ends the same—her bitching, talking shit, and acting like I need lessons I never asked for.
All I ever wanted is a mom who can guide me, not one who tries to own me. Someone who can love me withoutstrings, without control. But she can’t. She’ll probably never be able to.
So, I cut that cord—I’m done giving her chances to show me she isn’t going to change.
? ? ?
I wake up earlier than usual for work. I showerd last night, so all I really have to do is pull myself together. I decided to design my room in white and gray, with everything set up neatly in its spot to give me some sense of calm. My dresser sits perfectly beside my vanity, my bed centered just right, the rug soft and comforting under my feet. Perfume bottles in perfect rows, makeup arranged just the way I like it.
I drag myself into the stiff white uniform they swear is professional. Yet all it does is remind me I’m just a body here, filling a shift I already despise.
I already know how will today go. Another shift. Same faces. Same routine. My only hope is nothing pushes me over the edge enough to finally quit—because God knows I want to.
Every fucking day.
I pull into the lot with five minutes to spare, parking in my usual spot by the side door. The smell hits me first; fry oil, grilled onions, and last night’s bleach, clinging like they gassed the place. Marco’s already at the grill, Tia’s perched on register when I slide into the back to clock in. 8:01. Whatever. They’re lucky I even showed up. Two years at this dump, and I swear it’s draining the life out of me.
Apron on. Hat adjusted. Hair tucked. Hands washed—twice, because I’m refuse to be in any type of kitchen with dirty hands. I check the prep list, and get moving.
The first hour’s light. Black coffees. A couple breakfast sandwiches. A dad with two kids who take forever to pick between pancakes or fries. I slap on the customer-service smile, count change, and wipe counters between orders. Nothing worth remembering.
Exactly how I like it.
By mid-morning, lunch prep kicks in. Tia’s in her own world, spilling the latest chapter of her messy dating life—loud enough that if HR heard her, they’d choke. Meanwhile Marco’s murdering whatever’s on the radio, sounding like a dying cat auditioning forAmerican Idol.
And my manager’s doing her usual patrol. Clipboard in hand, eyes scanning for mistakes she’ll never find, hunting like it’s a blood sport.
I duck into the walk-in for more pickles, sucking in the blast of cold air. Thirty seconds of peace. My little secret hideout. No customers, no managers, no frying oil clinging to my skin—just a unforgiving chill. I’d stay longer if I could, but the line calls.
Back out, I reset the cutting board, glance at the clock and zone out. The shift’s running so smooth I almost believe my morning prayer might actually stick for once. But four-thirty hits, and like clockwork, hell breaks loose.
Orders come in one after another, my body moves on autopilot; call, build, wrap, hand-off. Smile for the assholes who roll their eyes and laugh with the regulars who pretend to care about my day.
After a rush that feels never-ending, the orders finally start to slow down. The noise fades, and for a second, the lull almost feels peaceful. I grab a rag and start wiping down thecounter, dragging it in slow, lazy circles—more out of habit than effort.
The door swings open, and the bell above it lets out its usual half-hearted jingle—sharp enough to make me look up even though I don’t want to.
My hand freezes over the register, cloth hanging midair.
Well would you look at what the cat dragged in—fucking Samantha.
Because why wouldn’t she walk into my workplace on the one day I begged for peace?
