Layla
The scent of chamomile tea, a familiar comfort, drifted through our tiny apartment as I gently placed the tray on the nightstand. The late afternoon sun, filtered by the grimy windowpanes, cast a weak, golden glow on Mama's face.
"Mama, I added honey. Just the way you like it," I said softly, my voice barely a whisper, as I sat beside her on the edge of the bed. The mattress springs groaned in protest under my weight.
My mother gave me a tired smile, a fragile bloom on her pale face. Her eyes, usually so vibrant, were now crinkling at the corners, though they looked sunken and dull, a testament to the persistent fatigue that gnawed at her.
"Thank you, Layla. You work too hard," she murmured, her voice raspy, as she reached for the ceramic cup with fingers that trembled slightly.
I caught her hand before she could lift it, my grip gentle but firm. "And I'll work harder if it means keeping you healthy," I insisted, a fierce determination hardening my tone. The thought of her declining health was a constant, icy knot in my stomach.
She sighed, a weary exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of all her unspoken worries. Her hand, surprisingly cool, brushed a stray strand of my hair behind my ear, a tender gesture that always brought a pang of bittersweet comfort. "You deserve a better life than this," she whispered, her gaze drifting around the cramped, fading room.
I offered a smile I didn't feel, a practiced façade I'd perfected over years of hardship. "One day, Mama. But right now, this is my life—and you're my world." The words were true, every single one of them. She was my anchor, my reason, my everything.
I helped her sip the warm tea, supporting the cup as her hands still trembled. Then, I adjusted her pillows, making sure she was as comfortable as possible before grabbing my worn canvas bag. My shift at the café would start in thirty minutes, and I couldn't afford to be late again. The threat of another tardy mark, another strike against my already precarious employment, loomed large. One more strike and I'd be jobless. Again. The thought made my stomach clench.
"Promise me you'll rest today," I pleaded, my eyes searching hers for reassurance.
"I promise. Go, before that cranky manager of yours throws another fit," she said, a faint glimmer of humor in her tired eyes.
I leaned down and kissed her forehead, the skin warm beneath my lips. "Love you, Mama."
"Love you more, my Layla."
Then, I grabbed my sweater, the familiar weight of it a small comfort, and raced out the door, the scent of chamomile and the lingering warmth of Mama's touch still with me.
The smell of espresso and warm croissants greeted me as I walked into the café, a familiar aroma that usually brought a sense of dread. It wasn't much, this small, bustling place, but the paycheck, when it came, helped cover half the rent—on a good week. The other half came from tutoring the neighborhood kids or late-night dishwashing gigs, each one chipping away at my already meager sleep.
"Layla!" I turned toward the counter where Naomi, my friend and coworker, was setting out a fresh batch of golden-brown muffins, their sweet scent mingling with the coffee.
"You're almost late," she smirked, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "Again."
I rolled my eyes, a weary groan escaping my lips. "Don't remind me. What's on the agenda today? More endless cups of decaf for Mrs. Henderson?"
"Same old boring stuff… but—" She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, her dark curls bouncing as she moved. "I heard something."
"What?" I asked, my curiosity piqued despite my exhaustion, as I reached for my apron, the rough fabric familiar against my fingers.
"There's a high-end corporate event coming up in two days. One of the girls from the catering crew said they're still short-staffed. It's at The Argent Hotel."
I blinked, the name echoing in my mind like a distant bell. "The one downtown? The very fancy one where all the CEOs and celebs throw their parties?"
Naomi nodded, her grin widening. "Yep. The very same. And get this: they pay crazy tips too. Seriously crazy. I'm thinking of signing up."
My heart gave a sudden, hopeful lurch. I grabbed her arm, my fingers digging lightly into her sleeve. "Naomi, can you get me in?" The words tumbled out, urgent and desperate.
She grinned, a genuine, warm smile that reached her eyes. "I'll talk to Sierra today, she's the one organizing the temporary staff. But you better find a black dress. They're strict with appearances. Like, super strict. Think sleek, elegant, no wrinkles."
I exhaled, a long, slow breath, already calculating how many hours of pay I'd need to buy one, the number already seeming impossibly high. If I could work that event… maybe, just maybe, I could finally pay the deposit for Mama's medication refill. And maybe… just maybe… my luck was finally about to change. The thought, a fragile, nascent hope, fluttered in my chest.
That evening, after my shift ended and my feet were aching, a dull throb radiating up my calves, I took the bus back home. The city lights blurred outside the window, a kaleidoscope of distant promises. Naomi's voice echoed in my mind, a persistent whisper.
"You better find a black dress..."
A black dress.
The words felt like a cruel joke. I didn't own one. Not even close. Most of my wardrobe consisted of faded jeans, simple cotton tops, and my worn-out café uniform, stained with countless coffee spills. I stared down at my paycheck stub, tucked inside my bag, the meager numbers a stark reminder of my reality. It wasn't much—barely enough to cover half of anything. But if I skipped groceries for the next few days and stretched the small amount of rice and beans I had left in the pantry, I could manage something from the thrift store. It was a long shot, but a shot nonetheless.
When I walked into the apartment, the quiet stillness was a welcome relief from the cacophony of the city. Mama was asleep, her breathing shallow and even, her worn copy of a romance novel resting on her chest. I tiptoed inside, careful not to disturb her, dropped my bag quietly by the door, and grabbed my phone. The glow of the screen felt harsh in the dim room. I opened a second-hand app, my fingers moving quickly, and typed in "black formal dress." and a price range, less than 20 dollars.
Ten options popped up, a dizzying row of styles and prices. My eyes scanned them, dismissing most. Then, one possibility, a glimmer of hope in the sea of pixelated images, caught my attention.
A knee-length satin dress, barely worn, was selling for fifteen dollars. The description promised it was in excellent condition, "only worn once for a graduation." Fifteen dollars. It was a risk, a gamble with my already strained budget, but the potential reward of Mama's medication was too great to ignore. I messaged the seller immediately, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, and arranged to meet the next morning.
By noon the next day, the satin dress, carefully folded, rested in my hands. The seller had been a kind, older woman, her eyes crinkling with sympathy when I explained, vaguely, why I needed it. It wasn't designer, not even close, but as I slipped it on in our tiny, cramped bathroom, it fit me like it had been made for me. The cool, smooth satin shimmered faintly under the window light, a subtle sheen that caught the meager sunshine. The off-shoulder design, a detail I hadn't noticed fully in the pictures, gave it a touch of elegance I hadn't felt in years. Years of oversized sweaters and practical, shapeless clothes had stripped away any sense of personal style, of feeling beautiful.
I spun around slowly in the tiny bathroom mirror, the faint squeak of the linoleum floor the only sound. A genuine smile, a rare and precious thing, tugged at my lips. For once, just for this fleeting moment, I didn't look like a girl juggling jobs and struggling to survive. I looked... almost beautiful. There was a quiet dignity in the simple lines of the dress, a hint of the woman I sometimes dreamed of being.
Mama knocked softly on the bathroom door, her voice weak but laced with curiosity. "Are you going somewhere, Layla?"
I stepped out, the satin felt different on my body, and twirled for her, a small flourish of newfound confidence. "How do I look, Mama?"
Her eyes, those tired, dull eyes, lit up, and she covered her mouth with a hand, a gasp of delight escaping her lips. "Oh, my baby, you look like a queen. A true queen."
My chest warmed at her words, a comforting heat spreading through me. It was all I needed to hear. "There's a fancy event I'm working at tomorrow night," I explained, the excitement bubbling up, hard to contain. "Big tips. Maybe enough to pay off the pharmacy bill, finally get your prescription refilled without having to beg for an extension."
She reached for my hand, her fingers frail but insistent. "I hate that you have to do so much, my little bird." Her voice was laced with a familiar guilt, a weight I always tried to lift from her shoulders.
I squeezed her fingers gently, offering a reassuring smile. "This won't be forever, Mama. Just one night. One night that could change everything." And in that moment, standing there in my borrowed, secondhand black dress, I truly believed it.