Chapter 1

Camryn

The sound of Giselle's laughter pulls me from sleep like the world's sweetest alarm clock. I crack open one eye, then the other, letting the morning light filter through our apartment's thin curtains. The sun catches on the dust particles floating lazily through the air, and for a moment, I just lie there, listening.

"Mama! The pancakes are asking for you!"

I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. That girl and her imagination.

"The pancakes are talking now?" I call out, pushing myself up from the bed.

"Yes! And they're very demanding!"

I pad out of my room, bare feet on the worn linoleum floor. Our apartment isn't much, just two small bedrooms, a kitchen that's barely big enough to turn around in, and a living room that doubles as Giselle's art studio. But it's ours, and that makes it everything.

Giselle's already in the kitchen, standing on her step stool by the counter. Her curly hair bounces around her shoulders as she examines the mixing bowl with the seriousness of a chef on one of those cooking shows.

"What are these pancakes saying exactly?"

"They want chocolate chips. Obviously."

"Obviously." I move behind her, wrapping my arms around her small frame and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She smells like the lavender lotion I rubbed on her skin after last night's bath. "And what do we say about chocolate for breakfast?"

"That it's a sometimes food?" Her voice lifts hopefully at the end.

"Mmhmm. And is today a sometimes?"

She twists in my arms, those bright eyes, so much like Jack's it sometimes hurts to look at them, wide and pleading. "It could be. I did clean up all my crayons yesterday without being asked."

"You did do that." I tap her nose gently. "Alright. Small handful of chips. And I mean small, Giselle Marie."

"Yes!" She pumps her fist in the air.

We move around the kitchen in our practiced dance. I crack eggs while she measures out the milk, tongue poking out in concentration. The milk sloshes a bit over the side of the measuring cup, but I don't say anything. She's trying, and that's what matters.

"Can you grab the flour from the cabinet?"

"On it, Mama."

While she retrieves it, I pull out the griddle and set it on the stove. The old thing's seen better days. There's a scratch across the surface from when I dropped it during the move three years ago, but it still works. That's all we need.

"How many pancakes do you want?"

"Seventeen."

"Try again."

"Three?" She grins at me, knowing full well she's being ridiculous.

"Three sounds much more reasonable than seventeen."

We mix the batter together, her small hands wrapped around the whisk while mine guide her movements. She hums while she works, some song she probably learned at school. The melody's off-key, but I wouldn't change a single note.

"Go set the table, baby."

She hops down from the step stool and skips to the cabinet, pulling out our plates. They're mismatched, some from the dollar store, others from a yard sale down the street, but she's picked the brightest ones. A yellow plate for her, a turquoise one for me. The colors clash against our scratched wooden table, but somehow it works.

"Forks or spoons?" she asks.

"Forks. And napkins."

"Right, right." She nods seriously, like I've just given her a mission of utmost importance.

I pour the first round of batter onto the griddle, watching it sizzle and bubble. The smell of cooking pancakes fills our small kitchen, mixing with the scent of the coffee brewing in the pot. It's not fancy, none of this is fancy, but it's home.

"Mama, can I tell you about my art project?"

"Always."

She launches into an elaborate explanation of her latest masterpiece while carefully placing a fork at each setting. Something about a rainbow garden where the flowers grow upside down and the butterflies paint the sky. I listen, flipping pancakes and nodding in all the right places.

"That sounds incredible, Gigi."

"Do you think Ms. Patterson will like it?"

"Ms. Patterson would be crazy not to like it." I slide three golden pancakes onto her plate, adding a small dollop of butter and a drizzle of syrup. "You're the most creative kid in that class."

"Maya's pretty creative too."

"True. You're both very talented." I make my own pancakes, smaller ones since my appetite's never big in the morning. "But you know what makes you extra special?"

"What?"

"You always think about making other people happy with your art. Like those drawings you did for Mrs. Chavez downstairs when she was sick."

Giselle's face lights up at the memory. "She put them on her fridge!"

"She sure did."

We sit down at our small table, knees almost touching in the cramped space. Giselle attacks her pancakes with enthusiasm, syrup somehow ending up on her chin within the first bite.

"Tell me something you're looking forward to today," I say, taking a sip of my coffee.

She chews thoughtfully, swinging her legs under the table. "Art class. And recess. Oh! And Tommy said he might bring his new comic book to show everyone."

"Sounds like a good day."

"What about you, Mama? What are you looking forward to?"

Coming home to you, I think. But that's not the kind of answer that helps a five-year-old understand her mama's got to clean other people's houses all day.

"Finishing Mrs. Rodriguez's house. She always leaves me sweet tea in the fridge."

"That's nice of her."

"It is." I reach across the table to wipe the syrup from her chin. "There are a lot of nice people in the world, baby."

"Like you."

My heart squeezes in my chest. "Like you too."

We finish breakfast, and I start clearing the plates while Giselle runs to brush her teeth. The routine's so familiar I could do it in my sleep. Rinse, stack, leave them in the sink for later because the bus will be here soon and there's never enough time in the morning.

"Mama! I can't find my backpack!"

"Where'd you leave it?"

"I don't remember!"

I find it in her room, tucked under her bed alongside three stuffed animals and what looks like the beginning of a fort made from blankets.

"Here you go." I hand it to her, then kneel down to her level. "Let me look at you."

She stands still while I check her over. Teeth brushed, check. Face clean, mostly. Hair needs a quick fix, so I smooth down a few wayward curls and adjust the bright purple headband she insisted on wearing.

"You look beautiful."

"You always say that."

"Because it's always true." I pull her into a hug, breathing in that little-girl scent of syrup and lavender and something uniquely Giselle. "I'm so proud of you, you know that?"

Her arms wrap around my neck. "I know."

"You're smart and kind and creative, and I'm the luckiest mama in the whole world."

"Even when I forget to clean my room?"

"Even then." I pull back, holding her face gently between my hands. "You're going to have the best day today, okay?"

"Okay."

"And if anything's wrong, or you feel sad, or you just need to talk—"

"The teacher can call you. I know, Mama."

The sound of air brakes hisses from outside. The bus.

"That's your ride, baby. You got everything?"

She pats her backpack. "Yep!"

We rush to the door, and I watch from the building threshold as she bounds down the steps. She turns back at the bottom, waving frantically.

"Love you, Mama!"

"Love you more!"

"Not possible!" She grins, then runs for the bus.

I stay in the doorway until the bus pulls away, Giselle's face pressed against the window, still waving. Only when it turns the corner do I step back inside and close our door.

The apartment feels too quiet without her.

I move through the space, picking up the stray crayon she missed last night, straightening the drawing on the fridge, a picture of the two of us holding hands under a smiling sun. My chest tightens with that familiar mix of love and worry that comes with single motherhood.

But there's no time for dwelling. I've got work in forty-five minutes, and I still need to change.

In my room, I pull out the light blue uniform from the closet. It's pressed and ready, because I iron it every Sunday night without fail. Presentation matters, even if I'm just cleaning someone else's bathroom.

The fabric's soft from too many washes, the color faded around the collar. But it's clean and professional, and that's what counts.

I change quickly, then move to the bathroom mirror.

The woman staring back at me looks tired. There are shadows under her eyes that concealer can't quite hide, worry lines starting to form at the corners of her mouth. Twenty-seven looks a lot older when you're carrying the weight of two people's futures on your shoulders.

I adjust my hair, smoothing it back into a neat bun. A few curls escape, they always do, but it'll have to work. I add the small gold hoops Giselle picked out for me last Christmas, the ones she saved her allowance for three months to buy.

They make me smile every time I see them.

Back in the living room, I grab my bag and check the contents. Lunch, which is just leftover chicken and rice from last night. Water bottle. Phone charger. Keys.

And there, tucked in the front pocket, three of Giselle's drawings that she insisted I take. "For luck, Mama."

I trace the crayon lines of the top one. Another rainbow, because that girl's obsessed with rainbows lately.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

It's just another day. Just another shift cleaning houses for people who probably don't even remember my name. Just another eight hours before I get to come home to the only person who matters.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the door.

The drawings crinkle slightly in the pocket, and I pat them once. For luck.