They were not the hands of someone being paid what I thought she was paid.
My eyes moved to her wrist.
A faded bracelet circled it.
I had seen it dozens of times.
But I had never really looked.
Two small initials were stitched into the worn fabric.
L.
M.
“Your children?”
She touched the bracelet instinctively.
“Yes.”
Her voice softened.
“Lila and Micah.”
“How old?”
“Lila is eight.”
A faint smile appeared.
“Micah just turned five.”
For the first time that night, her face revealed something different.
Not fear.
Love.
The kind of love that hurts because it demands sacrifice.
“They live with my mother in Peoria,” she said quietly.
“Why?”
June looked down again.
“Because I couldn’t afford Chicago anymore.”
The answer was simple.
Too simple.
“How much do you make here?”
That question changed everything.
Her expression shifted.
As if I had asked something dangerous.
“June.”
She swallowed.
“I’m paid enough.”
