Tell us about yourself.
What am I supposed to say? I'm nobody interesting. I'm a single mom who can't keep a job. I live in a crappy apartment. I spend my nights Googling medical conditions because I wanted to be a doctor once, before life happened.
That's fascinating. Please, tell us more about your Goodwill appliances.
"There's not much to tell." I smooth my hands over my thighs, buying time. "I'm from Chicago. Born and raised."
"Where in Chicago?" Nora asks. The redhead leans forward, genuine curiosity in those green eyes.
"South side, originally. Rogers Park now." I don't mention the neighborhood's reputation. They probably already know. "It's just me and Lily."
"And Lily's father?" Lorenzo's wife—Sophia—asks the question gently, like she already knows it's a minefield.
"Not in the picture." The words come out flat. Practiced. "We separated eight months ago."
"That must be hard." Sophia's voice holds something that sounds like understanding. "Raising a child alone."
You have no idea.
"Lily makes it worth it." That part's true. The only true thing about my life, some days.
The tension in my shoulders loosens. Just a fraction.
"What about your family?" Nora asks. "Parents? Siblings?"
"Only child. Raised by my mom." I pick at my thumbnail, a nervous habit I've never broken. "My dad left when I was two. I don't remember him."
The room goes quiet.
Great. Now they feel sorry for you.
"My mother's still around," I add quickly. "She helps with Lily sometimes. We're... close."
The lie tastes bitter. Close isn't the word. Complicated. Exhausting. Disappointing.
"Family is everything." Carmela speaks for the first time. "Even when they drive you crazy, yes?"
"Especially then," I agree.
The broad man with silver at his temples shifts in his chair. "What do you do for work, Kristen?"
The question hits like a punch.
Did. Past tense. What did I do.
"Catering, mostly." I force my voice steady. "Before that, waitressing. Retail. Whatever pays the bills."
I don't mention being fired. Don't mention the stack of past-due notices on my kitchen counter or the $1,500 monthly payment that keeps me awake at night.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nico
The dining room could seat thirty. Tonight, we're using maybe a quarter of the table, clustered at one end like survivors on a lifeboat.
I take my seat across from Kristen, which gives me an unobstructed view of her trying to disappear into the upholstery.
She's pulled her chair as close to Lily's booster seat as physically possible. Her shoulders curve inward. Her hands stay in her lap when they're not cutting food into microscopic pieces for her daughter. She takes up approximately the same amount of space as a small bird.
