“You won’t last.”
I stood straighter.
Maybe three months earlier, I would have walked out.
Maybe a year earlier, I would have told him I didn’t deserve to be spoken to that way.
But hunger changes the shape of pride.
When your child is burning with fever in a freezing apartment, dignity becomes something you promise yourself you’ll recover later.
“I only need to last long enough to get paid,” I said.
His chair stopped.
The corner of his mouth moved.
Not quite a smile.
“Honest.”
“I don’t have the energy to lie.”
That made him look at me again.
Before he could answer, the housekeeper returned.
Her name was Mrs. Alvarez.
She was a silver-haired woman in her sixties with soft eyes and a posture so straight she seemed incapable of being intimidated by anyone.
“Mr. Bennett’s evening routine begins at five,” she explained. “Medication, bathing, dinner, stretching exercises, then bed preparation.”
