Mira forced herself to breathe evenly. The tears had dried, but the ache remained. She knew she could not collapse. She had a child to think of now, and that meant she needed money. The shabby apartment, the cracked tiles, the sagging couch none of it mattered if she could not provide for the baby in her womb. She rose early each morning, dragging herself to one job after another.
She worked in a small office on weekends, typing reports, filing papers, answering phones. Her hands cramped, her eyes burned, but she kept going. In the evenings, she cleaned at a diner, scrubbing tables, sweeping floors, wiping counters until her back ached. On weekdays after her normal job and her dinning gig, she took shifts at a store, folding clothes, arranging shelves, smiling at customers who barely noticed her. Each paycheck was small but it could keep her afloat for now.
