The apartment reeked of stale gin and broken promises.
I knew it before I even turned the key, that thick, metallic dread settling in my gut like a warning siren. Something was off. Again.
I nudged the door open with my hip, balancing a sad little sandwich from the deli on downtown 7th and my bag that was splitting at the seams. Payday wasn't until next week, and I'd already done the math—this sandwich was my luxury item for the day. Wild, I know.
"Mom?" I called out.
Silence.
Well—no, not silence exactly. The TV was on, One of those dramatic soap operas was frozen on a scene where someone was crying in the rain. But no answer from her.
I kicked off my shoes and stepped into the living room, half-hoping she wasn't here. Maybe she'd gone out. Maybe she was at one of her meetings. Maybe she'd actually decided to try this week.
She hadn't.
She was on the couch, one arm dangling off the side, her face mashed into a throw pillow like it owed her money. The bottle of gin—cheap, always cheap—was on the floor, practically cuddled up next to her. Pill bottles surrounded her like tiny, orange plastic soldiers.
God. Not again.
"Mom," I said, moving toward her, sandwich already forgotten. "Hey. Wake up."
She groaned, barely stirring, mascara smudged down one cheek like she'd cried herself to sleep. Or passed out mid-dramatic flair. With my mom, either was possible.
"You mixed stuff again, didn't you?" I asked, gently shaking her shoulder.
"No," she slurred, blinking up at me. "Not the strong ones. Just… a few. Ellie, baby. You're home."
Yeah. Home. Lucky me.
I helped her sit up, her body limp as always after one of her cocktail experiments. Her hair was matted, roots growing in, and her robe—my robe, actually—was half falling off her shoulder.
My eyes drifted to the coffee table. That's when I saw them. The envelopes.
A mountain of unpaid bills, some unopened, most screaming at me in aggressive red fonts. I picked one up. Then another. Then another.
Overdraft. Final notice. Credit card default. Shutoff warning.
I felt the kind of tiredness that started in your bones and worked its way into your soul.
"Where did all this come from?" I asked, holding up a handful of them.
"I—I just needed groceries. And gas. And… other stuff," she mumbled, eyes closing again.
"Groceries don't cost twelve thousand dollars, Mom."
She didn't respond.
Of course she didn't.
I stared at her, this woman who once taught me how to dance in the kitchen and now couldn't keep the lights on without my paycheck. The anger flared up like it always did, hot and immediate—then fizzled into that familiar pit of helplessness.
"I can't keep doing this," I muttered, more to myself than to her. "I can't keep being the parent."
I got her into bed, tucked her in even though she didn't deserve it, and came back out to deal with the disaster she left behind. The more I opened, the worse it got. Rent was two months late. ConEd was threatening a shutoff. There was a payday loan I hadn't even known she'd taken out.
When I finished sorting the bills, it was after midnight, and my soul felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry on a wire hanger.
I sat on the edge of the couch, face in my hands, the uneaten sandwich on the table in front of me. My stomach growled, but I ignored it. Hunger was easier to manage than anxiety.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out with a sigh.
Tasha: Tell me you haven't been swallowed by the void.
I let out a weak laugh. She always knew the exact moment to check in, like she had some emotional radar tuned specifically to me.
Me: Void swallowed. Currently unpacking bills and existential dread.
Tasha: Shit. Your mom again?
Me: Full relapse. Gin, pills, debt. The holy trinity.
Tasha: God. El… I'm coming over.
Me: Don't. You have class early. I'm okay.
Tasha: Liar. But fine. Just know I've got snacks and shovel-sized hugs ready whenever you need them.
I smiled despite myself. If I ever got out of this mess, it'd be because of Tasha Laurent and her irrational belief that I deserved better.
I put the phone down and leaned my head back, staring at the ceiling like maybe it held answers. Spoiler alert: it didn't.
What was I even doing with my life? Twenty-three. Broke. No savings. No plan. Just working double shifts at a coffee shop so my mother could drink her way through my tips and I could wake up every day hoping the electricity still worked.
I needed a change. A real one. But the kind of change I could afford came in quarters and counted out hope by the dime.
A knock at the door made me jump.
I froze. No one decent knocked at this building past midnight.
I crept toward the peephole and peeked out. Mrs. Nicholas. Our upstairs neighbor and part-time busybody. She looked like a frowning gremlin in a pink hairnet.
I opened the door a crack.
"Eleanor," she whispered, eyes flicking behind me. "Your mother called 9-1-1 earlier. Said she couldn't breathe. I heard her. Then nothing."
"She's fine," I replied quickly. "She was… drunk. Again."
Mrs. Nicholas pursed her lips, clearly unimpressed. "I hope you know you can't keep putting out her fires forever. One day, they'll take you down too."
I nodded, though the lump in my throat made it hard to swallow. "I know."
She gave me one more pointed look before retreating back upstairs.
I closed the door slowly, her words hitting harder than I expected. I pressed my back against the wood and stared at the dark apartment around me. Bills. Empty bottles. Silence.
Maybe she was right.
I couldn't keep doing this forever. I was stuck, and no one was coming to save me. Not unless I found a way out.
I grabbed my phone again and scrolled mindlessly, trying to shut my brain up.
Then I saw it.
A job listing.
PERSONAL SECRETARY TO CEO – MANHATTAN. FULL-TIME. HIGH PAY. NO EXPERIENCE REQUIRED.
I stared at it.
Was this a joke? No experience? High pay?
It looked fake. Too good to be true. Probably was.
Still…
I clicked on it.
Just to look.