After all, New Year’s was almost here. A fresh year. A fresh start. Maybe even a chance for things to change.
But somewhere deep inside, Erin understood she was only comforting herself with pretty lies. A date on the calendar would not fix anything. If anything, life seemed to be tightening around her more and more.
Work swallowed the rest of the morning. She typed documents, sorted files, answered calls, and moved from one task to another as if someone had switched her to autopilot. Still, beneath all that routine, the bitter trace of Lily’s tired little face stayed with her.
When lunch break finally came, Erin allowed herself to sit down, open the container of plain pasta, and breathe for a moment. She had barely picked up her fork when her phone buzzed.
It was her daughter.
“Mom…” Lily’s voice was soft and careful, as though she had already prepared herself to hear no. “I wanted to ask…”
“Of course, sweetheart,” Erin said before Lily could even finish. “I’ll send you the money. For the ticket and popcorn too. Go. Have fun with your friends.”
For one second, the line went completely silent. The silence was so sharp it almost hurt, as if Lily could not believe what she had heard.
“Mom! Mommy! Thank you! I’ll tell you everything afterward, every single thing!”
Erin heard it then—that bright, weightless joy returning to her daughter’s voice, the kind of sound she had not heard in far too long.
“Have a wonderful time, bunny.”
She ended the call and immediately opened her banking app. The balance staring back at her was almost laughable. There was barely anything left. But Erin did not pause. She entered Lily’s number and sent the transfer.
Her last money.
Then she looked down at her pasta, plain and lonely without meatballs or salad, and to her surprise, a strange relief spread through her. By buying Lily a movie ticket, she felt as if she had bought her one small piece of an ordinary childhood.
By evening, snow had buried the city. Thick flakes came down in heavy clusters, the kind that should have looked magical in old holiday movies, but there was no magic in it that night. Traffic had slowed to a crawl. Buses dragged themselves along the streets as if they were half-asleep.
Erin stood at the stop for nearly twenty minutes, soaked through and chilled to the bone. When the bus finally arrived, people surged toward the doors all at once. She managed to squeeze inside only with difficulty, pressed so tightly against the metal pole that she could hardly move.
That was exactly when her phone began to ring.
Diane.
Her mother-in-law had an almost supernatural gift for calling at the worst possible moment. Erin shut her eyes briefly and exhaled. Of course. Perfect timing.
“Hello…” she said, struggling to keep hold of the phone so it would not slip from her fingers and disappear under the crowd’s boots.
“Erin, I won’t keep you,” Diane announced, in a tone that suggested she absolutely would. “Before the holidays, the apartment needs a deep cleaning. Come over and clean our place. Nick said you’re free this weekend.”
Erin nearly dropped the phone. Her fingers tightened around it just in time.
For a moment, she went still.
This was the last weekend before New Year’s. She had promised Lily they would decorate the apartment, put up the tree, and bake homemade cookies—anything to make their home feel even a little festive.
“Diane, I… I already have plans. Lily and I were going to—”
“You can do your own things later,” Diane cut in sharply. “I’m old. It’s hard for me. You’re supposed to help us.”
Erin had to bite back the answer rising to her tongue. Age was not the real problem, and they both knew it. The real problem was Diane’s endless cigarettes, the habit that left her wheezing after walking from one room to another.
“Let’s talk about this later,” Erin said, forcing her voice to remain even.
“That’s settled, then. I’ll expect you Saturday.”
The call ended before Erin could say another word.
She stood wedged between strangers, one foot barely touching the floor, trapped in the crush of coats and bags and damp winter air. Calling back was impossible. She could hardly breathe, much less argue.
Erin got home late—frozen, drained, and wrung out completely. But the second she opened the door, Lily rushed toward her, glowing with excitement, cheeks flushed, eyes shining.
“Mom! It was so good! And there was this one part that was so funny…” The girl talked without stopping, pulling Erin toward the kitchen as if the whole evening might spill out of her if she slowed down. “I warmed up dinner! Here, sit down. Your mug is right here. Mom, it was amazing!”
Erin looked at her daughter with exhausted eyes, but warmth slowly loosened something in her chest. Lily was happy. That mattered more than anything else.
She stroked Lily’s shoulder, listened to the breathless retelling of every scene, every joke, every whisper exchanged with friends, and smiled even though she could barely keep herself upright.
Nick was not home, though the wall clock already showed eight. Erin was not surprised. His absence had long ago become one of the “normal” parts of their life.
All she said quietly was, “The important thing is that you had a good day, sweetheart.”
Lily soon ran off to her room to call one of her friends. Even through the wall, Erin could hear her clear, ringing laughter—the kind of laughter that had become much too rare lately.
Slowly, Erin cleared the dinner dishes, rinsed the mugs, and wiped down the table. Every movement felt heavy. Exhaustion sat on her shoulders like lead.