6. Nora
NORA
“You understand this isn’t personal, Nora. We just need someone with more flexibility.”
I stand pressed between two businessmen in winter coats while the subway screeches into the station, loud enough that I almost miss the rest of what my manager says. My gloved hand tightens harder around the strap of my tote bag while cold air blasts through the underground platform.
Flexibility.
That’s what they always call it when they mean someone without a kid.
“I understand,” I say evenly, because what else am I supposed to say?
“You’ve always done excellent work,” she continues quickly, voice carrying that uncomfortable politeness people use when they know they’re screwing you over.
“But between the absences this month and the short notice today, Mrs. Holloway feels consistency is important in a private household environment.”
My throat burns.
Today wasn’t even my fault.
Paxton’s school called less than two hours into my shift because I sent him back too early after the flu.
He threw up in class all over his reading folder and one of the little beanbag chairs in the corner.
The nurse said he was embarrassed afterward even though every other kindergartener in existence has probably thrown up at school at some point.
I’d apologized to my supervisor immediately. She told me not to worry about it.
Now I know she already planned to fire me.
“She also feels,” my manager says carefully, “that a single mother may not be the best fit for the demands of the position.”
There it is.
I stare blindly at the graffiti-covered subway wall across the tracks while panic starts crawling up the back of my neck fast and ugly. I can’t afford panic right now though. Panic doesn’t pay rent. Panic doesn’t keep Paxton in school.
“Will my final paycheck be mailed?” I ask instead.
There’s a pause, like she expected crying, maybe. Begging. Something emotional.
“Yes. Direct deposit by Friday.”
Friday.
The same day tuition is due.
I close my eyes briefly. “Okay.”
“I truly am sorry, Nora.”
“Mhm.”
The subway arrives fully then with a blast of dirty air and screeching brakes. I step forward automatically with the crowd while balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear.
“You can use us as a reference." she adds hurriedly. “Your work quality was never the issue.”
Of course it wasn’t.
I clean up after wealthy people for a living. I wash wineglasses worth more than my monthly grocery budget. I organize closets bigger than my apartment. Rich people love me. They just don’t love inconvenience.
“Thank you,” I say calmly.
Then I hang up before my voice betrays me.
The subway doors slide shut behind me a minute later while I grab the nearest pole and stare blankly at my reflection in the darkened window.
I look exhausted. Blonde hair pulled into a low bun already coming loose from my shift.
Cheap black coat. Sneakers with salt stains around the soles from old snow.
Twenty-seven years old and sleeping on a mattress beneath my son’s loft bed.
My chest tightens briefly at the thought before I shove it away.
One problem at a time.
I pull out my phone instead, opening my banking app while the train rattles forward underground. The number staring back at me makes my stomach drop anyway despite already knowing what it’ll say.
Rent clears in four days. Tuition by Friday. Electric bill overdue already. Grocery budget gone because Paxton wanted strawberry popsicles every day while he was sick, and I couldn’t say no when he looked miserable, curled under blankets watching cartoons.
A hysterical laugh nearly climbs up my throat at the thought that popsicles might’ve financially ruined me.
The train lurches hard around a curve. Across from me, a toddler throws crackers onto the subway floor while his mother scrolls her phone looking dead behind the eyes.
I get it.
God, I get it.
By the time I emerge onto the street near Paxton’s school, icy wind has picked up hard enough to make my eyes water.
Manhattan crowds flow around me in expensive coats and hurried conversations while I walk the last two blocks toward the small brick school building tucked between a church and a brownstone.
Six years ago, this city felt like freedom.
Valentina and I used to sit on our apartment roof in Vegas eating dollar pizza and talking about what we would do when we’d finally made it somewhere nobody knew us. Somewhere big enough to disappear. We loved the idea of New York before we ever saw it in person.
I still do sometimes.
That’s probably the problem.
Inside the school, warmth hits me immediately along with the smell of crayons and disinfectant. The front office secretary smiles tiredly when I walk in.
“Nora, can you wait one second before grabbing Paxton?”
My stomach sinks instantly. “Sure.”
She disappears briefly into the back office before returning with that same careful expression my manager had earlier. I hate that look now. The sympathetic one people use before handing you another problem.
“We just wanted to remind you that the remaining semester tuition balance is due Friday.”
There it is.
I nod once slowly. “Right.”
“The principal asked me to let you know we can’t extend the deadline this time.”
I press my lips together hard enough that they ache. “Okay.”
She softens slightly. “I know things have probably been difficult with Paxton being sick.”
Difficult doesn’t begin to cover it.
“I can pick up more janitorial hours,” I offer quickly before pride stops me. “Even temporary ones. Weekends maybe?”
Her expression shifts apologetically immediately. “I’m sorry. Mr. Feldman said there aren’t any additional openings right now.”
Five thousand dollars.
Five thousand dollars by Friday or Paxton loses his spot here.
The only school that never made him feel different. The only school where teachers learned basic ASL before he even started kindergarten. Where other kids sign while they talk, and nobody treats it like a burden. Where nobody pressures him about implants or acts like deaf means broken.
I smile anyway because falling apart in front of school staff won’t help.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Nora—”
“I appreciate the warning.”
The secretary hesitates before nodding slowly.
A minute later, the kindergarten classroom door bursts open and Paxton comes flying into the hallway at full speed wearing his dinosaur backpack crooked across one shoulder. His blond curls are a mess from recess and one shoelace trails untied behind him.
The second he spots me, his whole face lights up.
The panic in my chest loosens immediately.
Mom!
His hands move fast as he barrels toward me.
I crouch automatically and catch him against my chest before signing back, Hi, bug.
He pulls back enough to sign dramatically, You’re early today.
I smile despite everything and sign back, Finished work sooner.
Half lie.
Paxton narrows his bright blue eyes suspiciously, in a way that reminds me painfully of someone I’ve spent years trying not to think about.
Then he signs, Ms. Carla says I can come in two days if no more throwing up.
I sign back, That is usually how that works.
His grin flashes immediately.
At five, Paxton somehow manages to be both wild and deeply observant at the same time.
He misses absolutely nothing despite people constantly assuming deaf means unaware.
If anything, he notices more than hearing people do because he actually watches the world instead of letting noise guide him through it.
Right now he studies my face for another second before signing carefully, You sad?
My throat tightens hard enough it hurts.
I smooth his curls back from his forehead before signing, Just tired.
He accepts that easily enough, because he’s five, and because I work too much for tired to mean anything unusual.
On the subway ride home, Paxton kneels sideways on the seat beside me while signing animatedly about school.
Something involving another kid eating glue and his teacher looking horrified enough that the woman across from us starts laughing quietly when Paxton demonstrates the expression dramatically.
I laugh too despite myself.
Then Paxton notices the woman watching and immediately signs, hello politely toward her.
Her face softens instantly. “Hi there.”
He beams proudly before turning back toward me and signing, She nice.
I nod. Yes. She is.
The subway rattles beneath us while I watch him talk with his hands and entire face at once, all expression and movement and energy.
He’s beautiful in a way that physically hurts sometimes.
Blond curls constantly needing trimmed. Bright blue eyes.
Long lashes. A smile that arrives fast and wholehearted.
The first time he signed mama, I cried so hard I scared myself, because I realized I would never allow anyone to love him halfway. Not while I’m alive, and even if that meant it was just the two of us forever.
By the time we get home, the sun has already started setting behind neighboring buildings. Our apartment is cold because I turned the heat lower before leaving this morning to save money.
Paxton drops his backpack beside the door immediately before signing, Spaghetti tonight?
I sign back, You ask like we have other groceries.
He grins unrepentantly.
The apartment is tiny even by New York standards. One main room. Small kitchenette. Bathroom barely big enough to turn around in. Paxton’s loft bed takes up almost an entire wall while my mattress sits underneath beside plastic storage bins full of clothes and winter blankets.
Still, it’s clean.
Always clean.
Control lives in little things now.
I start dinner while Paxton sprawls on the floor beside the TV building something elaborate out of mismatched Legos. Occasionally he signs random thoughts at me while I cook.
Can spiders hear?
Do fish sleep?
Why no dinosaurs now?