Harriet glances between us, clearly uncomfortable. “Rachel, I think I have everything I need. I’ll give you a call by Friday?”
“That sounds great. Thank you for the opportunity.”
I stand up, gathering my purse. Patricia’s still watching me.
“You’re the Morgan girl, aren’t you?” Her voice is pleasant enough, but there’s steel underneath it. “Living with your brother Jake over on Pine Street?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you have a son?” She says it like she’s confirming a crime. “Without a father in the picture?”
My spine stiffens. “I have a son, yes.”
“Such a shame.” She shakes her head, and I can’t tell if she’s talking about Tommy not having a father, about me being a single mother, or about my entire existence. “Young women these days don’t seem to understand the importance of stable family structures. Children need both parents.”
“Tommy has plenty of people who love him.” I keep my voice level even though I want to scream.
“I’m sure he does. But love isn’t the same as proper stability, is it?” Her smile is thin. “And that fire at the café where you worked—such a coincidence that you were there when it happened. People do talk.”
“The fire was arson. I was a victim, not a suspect.”
“Of course, dear. I’m sure that’s true.” But the way she says it makes it clear she doesn’t believe me at all. “Still, it does make one wonder. You move back to town, take up residence in your brother’s house, and suddenly there’s a fire at your workplace. It all seems rather… suspicious.”
Harriet looks mortified. “Patricia, I don’t think—”
“I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.” Patricia adjusts her purse strap. “Single mothers living off family charity rarely make good employees. Too many distractions. Too much drama.”
The words hit like a slap.
I want to argue. Want to defend myself. Want to list every single thing I’ve sacrificed and fought for to give Tommy a good life.
But my throat is tight, and my eyes are burning, and if I open my mouth right now, I’m going to either cry or say something I’ll regret.
So, I don’t say anything.
I walk out.
I make it to my car before the tears start. Sit in the driver’s seat with my hands gripping the steering wheel and let myself cry for exactly three minutes.
Then I wipe my face, start the engine, and drive home.
Jake’s not there when I get back. There’s a note on the fridge: “Took Tommy to the park. Back by dinner.”
I’m grateful. I don’t want to explain why my eyes are red or why I’m sitting on the kitchen floor staring at nothing.
My phone rings, unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Morgan? This is Doug Martinez. From the café.”
I sit up straighter. “Hi, Doug. How are you?”
“Been better, honestly.” He sighs. “I’m calling about the repairs. The insurance company is dragging its feet because of the arson investigation. They won’t pay out until someone’s held responsible for the fire.”
My stomach sinks. “How long will that take?”
“Could be months. Maybe longer if they never find who did it.” He sounds as exhausted as I feel. “Linda and I are trying to cover the gap, but we can’t afford to pay staff while the café’s closed. I’m so sorry, Rachel. You were a great manager. But I can’t give you a timeline for when we’ll reopen.”
