Lydia's POV
The morning came without permission.
I woke up early today without my alarm doing its job. My body was stiff and heavy, as if sleep had avoided me throughout the night.
The apartment was quiet, but then I heard Zoey cough softly in her room, accompanied by the familiar sound of her turning over in bed. Relief washed through me. She was awake.
I got up and checked on her before anything else. She was sitting up, rubbing her eyes, her messy hair uneven.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," I said softly.
She smiled at me, small but genuine. "Morning, Mummy."
I hugged her tightly as though I never wanted to let go.
"What do you want to eat this morning, my sunshine?"
"Anything is fine, Mummy," she said, giving me a side smile.
I helped her get settled with breakfast and her medication, watching her carefully as she ate. When she was done, she curled up on the couch with her blanket and the TV, looking comfortable enough for me to breathe again.
Only then did I open my phone.
The job listings were still there, waiting for me like an unfinished sentence. I scrolled slowly, carefully, reading every line as if my life depended on it.
Bakery assistant.
Cleaner.
Night shift warehouse worker.
I skipped everything that required long hours away from home. I skipped everything that asked for experience I didn't have. I skipped everything that paid too little to matter.
Hours passed like that. Scroll. Pause. Hope. Disappointment.
By afternoon, my eyes burned and my fingers ached. I placed the phone down and stared at the ceiling, wondering how long determination could survive without results.
Later that evening, after Zoey had fallen asleep, I tried again.
That was when I saw it.
*Private caregiver needed. Live-out position. Flexible hours. High pay.*
I read it twice, afraid my tired eyes were inventing things.
The listing was very brief—no company name, no pictures, just an address in a wealthy part of the city and a contact number. It mentioned an elderly woman, critically ill, in need of constant care and patience.
My chest skipped for a moment. I had no official caregiving certificate, but I had cared for my mother in her final months. I had learned how to listen, how to stay calm, how to be gentle even when fear tried to take over.
Before doubt could stop me, I sent a message.
I didn't expect a reply that night.
But my phone buzzed less than ten minutes later.
*Interview tomorrow morning. Be on time.*
I stared at the screen for a long moment, my heart pounding. Tomorrow felt too close, too sudden. But I typed back anyway.
*Thank you. I will be there.*
---
The house was nothing like I'd imagined.
Tall gates. Quiet streets. A building that looked less like a home and more like a statement. I stood outside for a moment, smoothing my clothes, wondering if I belonged anywhere near a place like this.
The door opened before I could knock.
A man stood there—tall, composed, his presence filling the space without effort. His expression was unreadable, his eyes sharp but tired, like someone who carried too much responsibility and too little rest.
"Yes," he said.
"I'm here for the caregiver position," I replied, my voice steady despite the pounding in my chest.
He studied me briefly, then stepped aside.
"Come in."
Inside, the house was silent, heavy with something unspoken.
"My name is Karl," he said as we walked. "My mother is very ill. She needs someone reliable. Someone patient."
"I can do that," I said quickly, then softened my tone. "I will do my best."
He stopped and looked at me again, this time longer. "This isn't an easy job."
"I know," I said, "but I don't walk away from people who need care."
Something shifted in his expression—not warmth, but recognition.
He led me into a room where an elderly woman lay resting, her breathing shallow but steady. I approached slowly, instinctively lowering my voice, my movements careful and respectful.
Karl watched silently.
After a moment, he nodded once. "You can start tomorrow."
Tomorrow.
The word felt unreal.
As I left the house later, the city looked different—brighter, quieter, as though something unseen had finally moved in my favor.
It wasn't everything.
But it was something.
And for the first time in days, hope didn't feel like a lie.