Amanda checked her phone for the tenth time that night. The screen showed the same cold message from her supervisor:
“I need you on the night shift. Double pay for extra hours.”
She gripped the phone as if it were the only thing keeping her afloat. That money was exactly what she needed to cover the overdue rent, to stop the eviction notice that had been taped to her door for three days, to make the refrigerator stop sounding empty every time she opened it.
But on the sofa, wrapped in a worn blanket, slept Bia.
Eighteen months old. Curly hair spread across an old pillow. Soft breathing, as if the world couldn’t touch her. Amanda felt her chest tighten. Her neighbor, Dona Marlene—the one who usually helped—had called earlier with a high fever. There was no one else. No daycare open at nine at night. No family to ask. No backup plan.
“God… what do I do?” she whispered, rubbing her tired face.
She thought about saying no. Making up an excuse. But the image of the eviction notice cut through her like a knife. She remembered Bia crying when the milk ran out before the end of the month. Remembered the shame of counting coins at the supermarket and putting items back on the shelf.