“The venue flooded last night,” she says, like it’s not a disaster. “A pipe burst. They’re postponing all events. We’ll have to reschedule.”
My fingers curl around the edge of the counter. “Postponing,” I repeat slowly.
“Yes! It’s just temporary,” she chirps. “Hopefully only a month or two. I’m so sorry. You’ve been wonderful, truly.”
A month or two.
My throat goes dry. Rent is due in twelve days. Utilities in seven. Daycare is nonnegotiable. My savings account is a joke I keep pretending is a safety net.
“I understand,” I say, because what else is there to say? “I’m glad everyone’s okay.”
“Oh, yes. Just water damage. You know how it is.”
I do.
She hangs up with another apology that lands like a feather on a drowning person. I set my phone down very carefully.
Nico looks up from his oatmeal, eyes wide and bright. “Mommy?”
I force my face into something soft. Something harmless. “Yes, baby.”
He studies me like he’s older than three. Like he’s always been older than three. Then he touches the place behind his ear with his fingertips, one quick, absentminded brush before returning to his spoon.
My stomach drops. Because he does that when he’s nervous. He does it the way some people chew their nails or twist their rings. Like he’s checking himself. Like he’s anchoring himself.
And it hits me, sudden and sharp, like a door slamming inside my chest.
That quirk isn’t mine. I’ve never done that.
But I’ve seen it.
I’ve seen it on scarred knuckles and still hands and a mouth that spoke quietly even when the world was screaming.
I swallow hard and make myself move. “Okay,” I say, clapping my hands lightly. “Shoes.”
Nico hops down with the solemn determination of someone preparing for battle.
* * *
I get him to daycare. I smile at the teacher. I make small talk like my life isn’t already rearranging itself around numbers.
Then I go to my office. My tiny, rented room above a yoga studio that smells like lavender and ambition, and I sit at my desk.
I open my planner. I stare at Saturday. Blank now. A dead square of white space where money used to live.
My chest tightens.
Okay. Okay, Lucia. You’ve done worse than this. You’ve survived on less. You’ve survived with bruises blooming under your sleeves and a man yelling in your ear and your body trying to warn you while your mind begged it to be quiet. This is just business. Just math.
I start calling. Venues. Brides. Corporate clients. Anyone who has ever said,We might need help in the future.I pitch myself like I’m not trembling inside. I smile into the phone like smiling can pay rent.
By noon, I’ve booked one consultation and two “maybe next month.” It’s not enough.
I don’t let myself think those words too loudly.
Not enough.
By the time I pick Nico up, my head aches from pretending I’m not scared. He comes barreling out of daycare with his dinosaur in one hand and a drawing in the other, beaming like the world has never harmed him a day in his life.
