The apartment smelled of rain and instant noodles.
Water leaked through the corner of a window that never fully shut, leaving a permanent stain on the wall no matter how many towels I stuffed beneath it.
I sat cross-legged on my bed sorting cash tips into tiny piles.
Rent.
Electricity.
Groceries.
The grocery pile was, as always, the smallest.
At thirty-two years old, I still lived one unexpected expense away from disaster.
My feet throbbed inside socks I’d worn for twelve straight hours.
Some nights, life felt like being underwater.
You weren’t drowning exactly.
You were simply never allowed to breathe.
Then my manager called.
“Can you work a charity dinner tonight?”
I almost said no.
But overtime wasn’t something I could afford to refuse.
Three hours later, I was balancing a tray of champagne glasses beneath crystal chandeliers worth more than everything I owned.
I had skipped both lunch and dinner just to fit into the uniform.
