PART THREE
Chapter Twenty-One: A Mother Works
The scent of sizzling oil, chopped vegetables, and roasting meat filled the cramped kitchen, mixing with the low hum of conversations and clattering dishes. Margret moved among the staff with quiet efficiency, keeping her head down, doing whatever was asked without complaint. Every movement was deliberate, every word measured. She could not afford mistakes—not here, not now.
Margret's muscles ached from the long hours, her body weaker than she wished to admit. Her HIV, untreated consistently since fleeing David, gnawed at her from the inside, draining her strength day by day. But she pushed through, ignoring the fatigue, the fever, and the nagging pain in her joints. Every shift, every task, every exhausted breath was a sacrifice she willingly made for Lucia.
Behind the counter, she handled orders with careful precision, her eyes scanning every plate, every customer, every detail. Margret had learned to work without drawing attention, blending in, doing her job without complaint. The other staff saw a quiet, diligent woman—focused, competent, and reliable—but they could never know the full weight of the life she carried outside these walls.
Lucia waited at school, often missing meals or staying behind with a substitute teacher while Margret worked extra hours. Every dollar Margret earned went toward rent, food, and school supplies. There was no luxury, no comfort, only survival and careful planning for the day when they might finally be free from David's reach.
The kitchen was hot, the air thick with steam, and Margret wiped her brow with the back of her hand. She felt dizzy for a moment, her heartbeat uneven, but she forced herself to focus on the tasks at hand. There was no room for weakness, no space for pity. She had to endure, to survive, to keep her daughter safe.
During brief pauses, Margret would glance at the small window above the sink, watching the world outside. People walked freely, laughing, unaware of the shadow of danger that had followed her across continents. She envied them, envied their freedom—but she could not let herself dwell on it. Every moment spent thinking of what she had lost risked her focus, her strength, her ability to protect Lucia.
At home, the apartment was quiet but spartan. Margret prepared simple meals, carefully rationed supplies, and ensured that Lucia's small routines continued despite the disruptions. She made sure her daughter did homework, got rest, and felt a sense of stability—even though Margret herself was unraveling, her health deteriorating with every passing day.
There were nights when Margret lay awake, shivering under the thin blanket, body wracked with fatigue and fever. She knew she should rest, should seek medical attention, but the costs, the risk of exposure, and the relentless demands of survival prevented her. She swallowed her pain, tucked it away deep inside, and reminded herself that it was all for Lucia. Every pang of weakness was a test of endurance, every ache a measure of the sacrifices she would make.
Even in the small moments of respite, Margret worried. The shadow of David's pursuit was never far, and the knowledge that he had resources to track them haunted her every step. She feared for their anonymity, feared mistakes, feared the day when he might find them. But she also knew that despair would achieve nothing. Only vigilance, only sacrifice, only careful action could protect them.
Lucia, unaware of the full scope of her mother's struggles, often asked gentle questions: "Mama, why are you so tired?" "Mama, can we have a little more time together?" Margret would smile through her pain, brush back her daughter's hair, and offer soft reassurances: "I'm fine, baby. Everything's okay. Mama's just working hard for us."
Those moments of forced cheerfulness were both painful and necessary. Margret could not let her daughter see the depth of her suffering. The child needed hope, stability, and love—not fear or worry. And so Margret carried the weight of her illness silently, enduring the aches, the fevers, and the exhaustion, channeling every ounce of strength into keeping Lucia alive, educated, and safe.
Day after day, shift after shift, Margret worked. Customers came and went, some kind, some brusque, but all unaware of the mother who fought battles they could never see. She cooked, cleaned, served, and smiled when required, her body failing but her spirit unbroken.
Every coin she earned, every meal she prepared, every hour endured in the hot, crowded kitchen was an act of love. Margret was not just a worker; she was a shield, a guardian, a protector. Her sacrifice was silent, invisible, and relentless—but it was the only way to ensure that Lucia had a chance at a life far from David's reach.
And in those quiet moments, when the kitchen buzz quieted, Margret would rest her hands on her stomach, close her eyes for a fleeting moment, and whisper softly to herself:
"I will endure. I will survive. For you, Lucia, I will never stop fighting."
Her body was weary, her health declining, but her heart was resolute. Every drop of sweat, every pang of pain, every ounce of exhaustion was proof of her love and determination. She was a mother, and survival was not a choice—it was an obligation, a mission, and the most profound expression of her strength.
Margret worked not just to survive, but to build a fragile, hopeful life for herself and her daughter. And even as the shadow of David's rage loomed in the distance, she clung to the one truth that sustained her: as long as she could fight, as long as she could endure, she could protect Lucia—and that was all that mattered.