Chapter 1 TASTE OF HARDSHIP

Pamela's POV

I smell the garlic before it burns. There's something sad about that-how something so small can ruin the whole damn sauce. I turn the heat down too late and stir with the kind of exhaustion that clings to my bones like wet clothes.

The café is quiet. The air feels like it's holding its breath. There's no laughter, no clatter of forks or hum of life. Just me, a pan of ruined tomato sauce, and the thump of my heartbeat trying not to panic.

No customers again. I've been here since 5 a.m., and all I've sold is a single stale muffin to the mailman who didn't even finish it.

I wipe my hands on my apron and glance at the register. It's almost empty-just a few crumpled bills and a handful of coins. Not enough for the rent, not to mention Grandpa's surgery which is the most important thing right now.

My head is heavy with the trials of these days; still wafting through the darkness were small glowing embers of hope. Panic rising inside my chest as I tried to act steady and composed, I made a silent promise to myself not to scare, no matter how dark all this seemed to get

I walk to the window and pretend to clean the glass, but I'm just watching the street. Hoping and waiting. Wishing for someone to walk in, for something to change, for a miracle in the shape of a hungry mouth with a fat wallet

The sun slices through the blinds, turning dust into gold. It should look beautiful. It just looks like a reminder that time's running out.

I hear him cough from the back room.

"Pam?"

My name in his voice feels like home and heartbreak all wrapped in one word. I push through the swinging door into the back where Grandpa lies on the worn-out cot. He's thinner now and paler. His eyes are still bright, but it's the kind of brightness that flickers.

"Did you eat?" I ask, soft.

He smiles weakly. "Waiting on that famous grilled cheese."

I try to smile, but my lips barely twitch.

He nods, then his eyes close again, like even talking costs too much energy now.

I turn back to the kitchen. The sauce is ruined and the soup is cold. Yet I'm broke.

The bell above the back door jingles.

I stiffen. Not many people use that entrance. It's mostly for deliveries and the occasional health inspector who thinks a clipboard makes him God.

A man's standing in the doorway; he's tall and expensive-looking. The sunlight behind him is too bright. He doesn't fit here, and even the kitchen feels tense like it knows he shouldn't be here. The noise stills, like even the grease stopped sizzling. He's not dressed like a local health inspector, but his black suit, sunglasses, and polished shoes look like they've never touched dirt.

"Pamela Brown?" he says, and my name sounds foreign in his mouth, trimmed of softness.

I nod slowly. "Who's asking?"

He steps forward and pulls an envelope from his coat.

"I was instructed to deliver this.

His tone is neutral, but something in the way he looks at me-like he knows too much, or worse, nothing at all-makes my stomach knot. I wipe my hands again before taking it, the paper warms from where it's pressed against his chest.

"Thanks," I say, because that's what people expect. Manners make you less of a target.

"I represent the landlord of this building. You've been given notice to vacate. Effective immediately."

I blink.

"I-wait. What? We just-we needed a little more time."

He doesn't blink. "You've had three extensions. I'm afraid we can't afford another one."

His voice is polite, but it cuts like glass.

He turns to leave, and I hear myself say, "Can you give us a week? Just a week."

He pauses and he shoots back

"Your request is noted"

Then he's gone.

I stand there, the envelope trembling in my hand. The silence roars and my heart races.

I stare at the envelope for too long. My heart beats too loudly and fast. I hear Grandpa stir in his sleep, which makes me let out a sigh I didn't realize I was holding.

Back in the kitchen, the garlic stinks.

That's when I break. The tears I tried not to spill now flowed freely. I tried to hold it, I tried not to break, I tried to be strong for myself, for Grandpa, but I can't anymore. I hit my knees on the floor, and my fingers dig into the tile like I'm trying to hold on to something that isn't slipping through my hands.

I sob for some minutes, still on the floor, alone with no one to comfort me. Then I swallow, wipe my face, and rise back to my feet.

The whole place smells like onions and something heavier, like tiredness. No matter how hard I scrub, the grease sticks, just like the bills that keep showing up when I can't deal with them. They don't go away. They just pile up.

I don't know how long I've been looking into space before the door swings open again. This time it's Marlene from the bakery down the street. She's got pity in her eyes, which I hate more than cruelty.

"Hey," she says gently. "You alright?"

I nod even though it's a lie.

"You got mail," she adds, holding out a thick white envelope. "Someone left this at my place by mistake."

I take it, thank her, and wait until she's gone before opening it.

When I opened the mail, It was a one-night offer for a catering job, a party for the rich, and the details were not attached, except for a fancy logo I didn't recognize and a promise of $5,000 in cash, which was too good to be true.

I stare at the paper, throat tight. It feels like bait. But I'm already caught.

I glance toward the back, where Grandpa is still sleeping, breathing shallowly.

I look at the eviction notice on the counter.

And I press the catering invitation to my chest like it's both a life raft and a loaded gun.

I whisper to no one, "Could this be real?"