PART THREE
Chapter Twenty-Six: No More Job
Margret knew before she walked through the restaurant doors that it was over.
Her body told her first.
Her legs felt hollow, like they might give way at any moment. The short walk from the bus stop had drained what little strength she had left, and by the time she reached the entrance, sweat dampened her clothes despite the cool air. She paused outside, resting her palm against the glass, steadying herself.
This job was the only thing keeping them afloat.
And she was about to lose it.
Inside, the familiar noise of clattering dishes and sizzling oil felt overwhelming. The smells turned her stomach instantly. A coworker glanced at her and frowned.
"You shouldn't be here," the woman said quietly. "You look worse than yesterday."
Margret forced a smile. "I can manage."
But even as she said it, she knew she couldn't.
She barely lasted thirty minutes.
Her hands shook too badly to carry trays. Her vision blurred again, and she had to grip the counter just to stay upright. The manager noticed. Of course he did. He had been watching her for weeks now—her missed shifts, her slowed pace, the collapse that everyone still whispered about.
He motioned her into the back office.
"Sit," he said gently.
Margret lowered herself into the chair, heart pounding. She already knew what was coming, but hearing it would still hurt.
"I can't do this anymore," he continued, rubbing his forehead. "You're sick, Margret. Really sick. And I'm worried about you—but I also have a business to run."
She nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the floor.
"You need rest," he said. "Medical care. Time."
Time.The one thing she didn't have.
"I'll give you today's pay," he added. "But I can't keep you on the schedule. It's not safe—for you or for us."
Margret swallowed hard. "I understand."
The words tasted bitter.
She stood slowly, legs trembling, and untied her apron for the last time. As she placed it on the desk, something inside her cracked—not loudly, not dramatically, but deeply.
This was it.
No income.No treatment.No buffer between survival and collapse.
She walked out of the restaurant without looking back.
Lucia was waiting at home when Margret returned early. The moment she saw her mother's face, she knew.
"You lost the job," Lucia said quietly.
Margret sank onto the couch and nodded. She didn't trust her voice.
Lucia sat beside her, small hands clenched tightly in her lap. "Is it because you fainted?"
"Yes," Margret whispered.
"And because you're sick?"
Margret hesitated, then nodded again.
Lucia looked away, blinking rapidly. "So what do we do now?"
That question broke her.
Margret pulled her daughter into her arms, holding her as tightly as her weak body allowed. "I'll figure something out," she said, though fear clawed at her chest. "I always do."
But this time, the words felt empty.
The days that followed were heavy and quiet.
No alarm clock.No shifts.No pay.
The refrigerator grew emptier. Bills piled up on the table. Margret spent hours lying down, conserving energy, trying to ignore the fevers and aches that grew worse without medication. Every missed pill felt like a ticking clock.
Lucia stopped asking for things.
No snacks.No school trips.No new notebooks.
She became careful, observant—too careful for someone her age. She watched her mother constantly, stepping in when Margret struggled to stand, bringing water without being asked, cleaning quietly.
Margret noticed it all.
And it terrified her.
"I don't want you doing this," Margret said one afternoon as Lucia helped her sit up. "You're still a child."
Lucia shook her head. "You're my mother."
That was all she said.
At night, Margret lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thoughts spiraling. Without work, they were visible. Vulnerable. If authorities noticed. If neighbors talked. If David's reach extended even this far—
She squeezed her eyes shut.
She had run so far.Sacrificed so much.And still, the walls were closing in.
One evening, Margret opened the cupboard and stared at the empty space where the pill bottle used to be. No more medication. No savings. No job.
Just time slipping away.
She pressed a hand to her chest, breathing slowly. "I have to last," she whispered into the silence. "Just a little longer."
Because if she fell now—If she disappeared—
Lucia would be alone.
And that was something Margret could not allow.
Not yet.
Not ever.