And today, it was broke.
Her bank account had been a tightrope for weeks. Then Tyler’s construction job vanished under him like a trapdoor.
“One day you’re on the site,” he’d told her, coming home with his hard hat in his hands like it was suddenly something fragile. “Next day they’re telling us the project’s on hold and half the crew’s gone. No warning. Just… ‘We’ll call you.’”
They hadn’t called.
Mara’s part-time call center work was a small, steady drip into a bucket with a hole. It covered rent if nothing else went wrong, utilities if they were careful, groceries if they were ruthless.
There was no room for anything extra. Not the prenatal vitamins her doctor recommended. Not the stroller they’d been eyeing online. Not the little ridiculous things she’d imagined when she first found out she was pregnant—tiny socks, a crib mobile, a baby book with pages that smelled like clean paper and promise.
