She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer she had been praying for six months. Please, just let us make it through this. Please let there be something better waiting. The ceiling did not answer. The streetlight kept casting its bright, indifferent glow. And somewhere across the city, in a penthouse apartment she could not even imagine, Theodore Lancaster probably was not thinking about her at all.
The morning light came through the thin curtains, bright and unforgiving. Camille woke before her alarm, as she always did now. Her body had learned to run on five hours of sleep, though her mind protested with a dull ache behind her eyes. She got up quietly, not wanting to wake her mother. The apartment was small. Two bedrooms. A kitchen that opened into a living room. One bathroom with tiles that had been white once but were now a dingy cream. The walls were pale blue. The furniture was secondhand. But everything was clean. Camille made sure of that.
In the kitchen, she started coffee and took out her mother’s medications. Seven different bottles, each with specific instructions. Two with breakfast. One before breakfast. Three with dinner. One at bedtime. Camille had them memorized, but she still checked the labels every morning. A mistake could be dangerous. Gloria shuffled in around seven, moving slowly. She wore a green bathrobe that Camille had bought her last Christmas, back when there was still money for gifts. “Morning, baby,” Gloria said, easing herself into a kitchen chair. The yellow tablecloth was cheerful, at odds with the worry in her eyes. “Morning, Mama.” Camille set down a plate of eggs and toast. “Eat these with your morning pills.” “You’re going to make me fat,” Gloria said, but she picked up her fork.
Camille poured two cups of coffee and sat across from her mother. For a few minutes, they ate in comfortable silence. These quiet mornings were Camille’s favorite part of the day, before the world and its demands crashed in. “You have the late shift today?” Gloria asked. “Yes, ma’am. Two to ten.” “That man. The one who upset you yesterday. Is he a regular?” Camille hesitated. She did not want to lie, but she did not want to worry her mother either. “He comes in sometimes. It’s fine, Mama. I can handle it.”
Gloria set down her fork, her expression serious. “Camille, listen to me. I know you think you have to take care of me, and I’m grateful, baby. More grateful than I can say. But don’t let people treat you poorly. Not for me. Not for anyone.” “I’m not letting them treat me poorly. I’m doing my job.” “There’s a difference between doing your job and accepting disrespect.” Gloria reached across the table, taking Camille’s hand. “You are brilliant. You are educated. You are worth more than any of those people eating in that restaurant.” Tears pricked at Camille’s eyes, but she blinked them away. “I know, Mama. But knowing doesn’t pay the bills.” “No,” Gloria said softly. “But it keeps your soul intact. Don’t forget who you are because of where you work.”
After breakfast, Camille helped her mother to the living room and turned on the television. Then she retreated to her bedroom, closing the door quietly. Her laptop sat on a small desk by the window. She opened it, and there it was. Her dissertation. The Evolution of Romance Languages in Postwar Europe: A Linguistic Analysis of Cultural Identity and Transformation. One hundred forty-seven pages. Three years of research. Incomplete. Camille scrolled through the document, reading passages she had written in Paris cafés, in the Sorbonne library, in her tiny apartment near the Latin Quarter. The words felt like they belonged to someone else now. That Camille, the scholar who debated philosophy over wine and discussed syntax patterns with professors, seemed impossibly far away. She closed the laptop without adding anything. What was the point? Even if she finished it, who would read it? How would she defend it? She could not afford to go back to Paris. She could not afford to leave her mother. The dream was over. She just had not accepted it yet.