The photograph was faded around the edges, soft with time and wear. Calla's mother stood between her and Benji, arms around their small shoulders, hair pulled back in a messy bun. It had been fall, just like now — the trees in the background blurred with red and amber, sun low in the sky.
Calla traced her finger along the edge of the photo. She didn't usually take it out. It made her chest ache — not in the sudden, stabbing way grief did at first, but the deep, tired way you feel when a scar itches after too long.
But tonight, with Benji sound asleep in the room they shared, she'd pulled the photo from the lining of her backpack. A reminder. Of why she didn't get too comfortable. Of what she'd promised herself she'd never forget.
A soft knock on the doorframe made her flinch slightly. Iris stood there, holding two mugs of tea. Her hair was down tonight, the ends curling gently over her shoulders. She didn't say anything — just waited.
Calla nodded once, and Iris stepped inside.
"Couldn't sleep either?" she asked, settling onto the far end of the couch.
Calla shrugged. "Habit, I guess."
Iris offered one of the mugs. "Chamomile. It's not a cure-all, but it helps."
Calla accepted it with a murmured thanks. The steam curled against her face, grounding and warm.
After a moment, Iris nodded toward the photo. "That your mom?"
Calla hesitated. Every instinct screamed to tuck it away. But she didn't. She turned the image slowly so Iris could see.
"That's us," she said. "Three years ago. Before... everything."
Iris leaned forward slightly, studying it. "You have her eyes."
"Everyone says that."
"And Benji has her smile."
Calla nodded. "He does. Exactly."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, the city hushed around them. The photo lay between them on the coffee table, like an offering.
"What was she like?" Iris asked gently.
Calla swallowed. "Strong. And tired. All the time. But... warm, you know? Even when everything felt like it was falling apart, she never made us feel like we were too much."
Iris just listened.
"She worked all the time," Calla continued. "Cashier during the day. Cleaned offices at night. Still came home and read to Benji every night. Never skipped. Even if she was half-asleep, she'd sit up in bed and read that same dumb monster book he loved."
Her voice cracked, and she went quiet for a moment.
"Then she got sick," she said.
Iris didn't say anything. Just sipped her tea and waited.
"It started in her breast," Calla said. "She ignored it for a while. She couldn't afford to stop working. Didn't want to worry us."
Her grip on the mug tightened.
"By the time she saw a doctor, it had spread. They gave her six months. She lasted four."
Iris set her tea down carefully. "Calla…"
"I don't want sympathy," Calla cut in quickly. "I just... want someone to know. For real. Not the short version. Not the lie."
Iris nodded slowly. "Okay. I'm listening."
"After she died," Calla said, "we went to live with her sister. Our aunt. She had her own kids, her own stuff going on. Said she'd take us in 'for a while.'"
Her voice shifted — hardening slightly, pulling the warmth away like a curtain.
"One day, she told us she needed space. Said we should go stay with friends for a bit. We packed our stuff. She dropped us off downtown and said she'd call us in a few days."
Calla laughed bitterly. "She never did."
Iris reached out slowly, placing a hand on the back of the couch — not touching, but close. Calla noticed. Appreciated it.
"And your dad?" Iris asked gently.
Calla's eyes darkened. "He left when Benji was two. No note. Just... gone."
She took a long breath.
"After Mom died, I called him. Thought maybe... I don't know. Maybe he'd step up."
She shook her head. "He picked up. Said he was sorry. Said his new wife wasn't comfortable with us staying. Offered to send fifty bucks."
Iris closed her eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly.
"I hung up," Calla said. "Haven't spoken to him since."
A long silence stretched between them.
"And Benji?" Iris asked.
"He knows Mom's gone. He remembers bits and pieces." Calla's voice softened. "But about Dad? He thinks he died in a car crash a few years ago. That's what I told him."
"You lied to protect him."
"I lied because I didn't want him to feel like he was thrown away."
"That's love," Iris said simply.
Calla blinked hard.
"No one should have to carry all of that," Iris added. "Especially not a kid."
"I didn't have a choice."
"I know. But you do now."
The quiet in the room deepened — not heavy, just still.
"You're not alone anymore, Calla."
Calla didn't answer right away. She reached forward and gently folded the photograph along its worn creases. Slid it back into her backpack. Let the silence settle.
Then, softly: "I want to earn my place here. I don't want it to feel like we're just... taking."
"You already have," Iris said.
Calla looked up, eyes serious. "Would Rick let me work for him? Like actually work? After school stuff. I want to pay for things. Save for... I don't know. Something."
"You mean like a job?"
Calla nodded.
Iris smiled, gentle and sure. "I'll talk to him."
Calla let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "Thanks."
"No promises," Iris added. "But I have a good feeling."
"Me too," Calla whispered.
She started the job four days later.
Rick didn't hesitate.
"You're hired," he'd said, his booming voice filling the little store. "Start today if you want. After school. Four-thirty to seven. Nothing fancy. Six bucks an hour."
Calla had stared at him, stunned.
"Iris vouches for you," he added. "That's good enough for me."
"But I stole from you."
Rick waved a hand. "Water under the bridge. Everyone makes mistakes. Not everyone owns up to them."
It had taken everything in Calla not to cry right then and there.
Her first shift was awkward — lots of shelf stacking, a spilled bottle of juice, and a failed attempt at opening a stubborn register drawer. But Rick didn't yell. Just laughed. Showed her again. Let her try.
When she clocked out, he handed her eighteen dollars in cash.
"Not much," he said. "But honest. You did good."
She folded it carefully. Stuck it in the pocket of her coat.
That night, Benji cheered like she'd just come back from winning the lottery.
"Can we get pizza to celebrate?" he asked, eyes bright.
Calla looked at Iris. Iris looked back.
"Your call," she said.
Calla paused. Then: "Yeah. Pizza. My treat."
Later, full of mozzarella and warmth, they walked home beneath a city sky littered with distant stars. Benji skipped ahead, humming to himself.
Iris fell into step beside Calla.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah," Calla said. "I think I am."
"You're allowed to be."
Calla nodded. "I just... it's all new."
"New isn't bad."
"No. It's not."
They reached the apartment, the key clicking in the door. Benji ran ahead to the couch, already pulling out a blanket.
Calla lingered at the threshold, glancing once more at the night sky.
For the first time in a long time, she didn't feel like she was stealing peace. She felt like maybe — just maybe — she'd been offered it.
And she was ready to accept.