ARIA
I checked my blood sugar with one hand and held my father's morning meds in the other.
5:41 a.m.
Low. Again.
I popped a glucose tab in my mouth, ignored the sting on my finger, and exhaled as quietly as I could.
Dad was asleep in the next room. The wheeze in his breathing had gotten louder overnight.
I padded across the small living room, careful not to step on the loose tile near the couch, and set his medicine beside a half-empty glass of water. He hadn't finished dinner last night. He'd barely eaten all week.
The coffee machine gurgled weakly behind me. Our rent check sat on the counter, unsigned. I hadn't paid it yet. Not because I forgot.
Because I couldn't.
A soft beep pulled my eyes to my phone screen:
UNPAID BILL Lab Results Hold – $168.00
And beneath it:
Deferral Confirmed Business Administration Program (Final Year)
I stared at the message for a long time.
I used to dream about that graduation. About walking across a stage and watching my dad smile like he used to strong, upright, proud.
Now he couldn't walk to the mailbox without coughing blood.
The meds. The tests. The insulin.
I didn't have a choice.
I folded the message and shoved the letter in the drawer. One day, I promised myself. One day I'll go back.
But not today.
My uniform was wrinkled and slightly coffee-stained. I smoothed it out the best I could, tied my apron, and headed out into the cold morning. The bus was late again, and I didn't have enough for a cab.
The city was already alive when I reached the upscale part of town. Skyscrapers rose like weapons, and the people inside the cafés and offices acted like time belonged to them.
I served them coffee.
And wiped their tables.
And smiled while they complained about how "slow" I was or how their almond milk was too almondy.
I clocked in, washed my hands, and braced for the shift.
It started the same as always orders, noise, impatient sighs, and my feet begging for a break that never came. The morning rush was relentless I maneuvered between polished tables and over perfumed patrons. I moved carefully, my body always on alert. I couldn't afford another collapse. The last one cost me two shifts and half a bottle of insulin.
Around noon, my hands shook again. I snuck behind the counter and sipped orange juice straight from a customer cup, praying no one saw me. I just needed to get through the day.
"Miss Davis," my manager snapped. "We're out of muffins again."
I nodded. "I'll restock."
"Hurry. The suits are already complaining.
By the time I got home, I was a shadow. My bones ached. My vision blurred around the edges. But I was still on my feet.
Just barely.
Dad was awake when I walked in, wrapped in his blanket on the couch, remote in hand like he was still the man who ran the house.
"Hey, baby girl."
His voice was thin. But he smiled.
I smiled back and knelt to kiss his forehead.
"Get any rest?" I asked.
"Enough." He winced as he adjusted. "Had a weird dream. I was driving that boy again. Dalton. You remember him?"
My heart skipped.
Of course I did.
Tall, quiet. Grieving his father when I was grieving my mother and Olivia. He'd come to the funeral that day. Nineteen and awkward, but kind in a way that stuck with me. I'd had the dumbest, softest crush.
"I remember," I said softly.
"Smart kid," Dad muttered. "Wound tight, though. Never stopped thinking. Always looking out the window like he was trying to solve the world."
I pressed a glass of water into his hands.
"He's probably a billionaire by now," Dad chuckled, wheezing slightly. "Hope he still says please and thank you."
I didn't tell him the Gray family now owned half the city.
I didn't tell him I sometimes saw the name Graystone on buildings and billboards and wondered if Dalton even remembered us.
I didn't tell him I was dying on my feet and working a job that barely covered my insulin, let alone his meds.
"Go lie down," he said. "You look pale."
I kissed his forehead again. "I'm fine."
Lie number one.
I wasn't fine.
I was running on fumes, hiding a body that needed help, pretending I could keep us both alive on tips and hope.
When he finally dozed off again, I sat by the kitchen table, staring at the stack of unpaid bills and prescriptions. The bank app said what it always said:
Available Balance: $8.42
I gripped the edge of the table and lowered my head to the wood.
I didn't cry.
I couldn't afford that either.