The Dinner
It was already past 10pm and Maya was walking back home from the 8 hour shift she had spent as a waitress in a small restaurant.
That was what she had done for the past 4 years to keep up with the bills, her mother's bills, and pressing needs. She dragged her feet lazily walking down the street, her sneakers scraping against the pavement with every tired step.
Her back ached from bending over tables all evening. Her feet throbbed inside her worn-out shoes. In her pocket sat a small, folded pile of tip money that wouldn't be enough to cover half of what they owed this month. It never was.
She reached her building and climbed the narrow steps, the same steps she had climbed a thousand times before. The key stuck in the lock like it always did, and she had to jiggle it twice before the door finally gave way.
"That you, baby?" her mother's voice came from the kitchen the moment the door opened.
"It's me, Mama." Maya toed off her shoes and left them by the door.
"Come and eat. Food's already on the table."
Maya walked into the kitchen. The smell of tomato sauce and burnt garlic hung in the air. Her mother stood by the stove, still stirring the pot even though it looked ready.
"Sit down. You look exhausted."
"I am exhausted." Maya dropped into her chair and let out a long breath. "Table six sent their order back twice tonight. Said it was cold. It wasn't."
Her mother placed a plate in front of her and sat down across the table. "People will always find something to complain about."
"Tell me about it."
They ate in silence for a while, the kind of silence that came easy between them after years of the same routine — Maya coming home late, her mother waiting up with dinner, the two of them talking about nothing important until one of them brought up something that mattered.
"How long has it been now?" her mother asked suddenly. "Four years at that restaurant?"
"Almost five, Mama."
Her mother shook her head slowly. "You went to school for photography. You have a good eye. You always did, even as a child."
"A good eye doesn't pay rent." Maya said it lightly, but there was a tiredness underneath the words that had nothing to do with her shift.
"It could. If you let it."
Maya didn't answer that. She had heard some version of this conversation many times before, and she didn't have the energy tonight to explain, again, why hope was a luxury she had learned to ration carefully.
Her mother's phone rang on the table, buzzing against the wood. She glanced at it, then frowned. "Someone keeps calling. Is your phone off?"
Maya reached into her apron, still tied around her waist, and pulled out her phone. She hadn't checked it once since her shift started. Three missed calls sat on the screen. Below them, an email notification waited, the subject line visible without her even opening it.
*Jonesboro College Athletics — Photography Position: Next Steps*
She sat up straighter. Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth.
"Maya?" her mother said. "What is it?"
Maya didn't answer right away. She opened the email and read it once, then again, to make sure she wasn't imagining it. It was about the job she had applied for months ago — the photography position with Jonesboro College's racing team. She barely remembered filling out that application. A friend had sent her the listing late one night with a message that said, *this is literally you, apply before you talk yourself out of it.* She had applied half-asleep and forgotten about it completely. It was easier to forget than to hope.
*We are pleased to formally invite you to join Jonesboro College's Formula Racing Program as Official Team Photographer for the upcoming season...*
"Mama." Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to. "I got it."
"Got what?"
"The job. The photography job with the racing team." Maya looked up from the phone, and whatever was on her face must have said enough, because her mother's spoon clattered against the pot.
"The one with the cars? The one you told me about?"
"That one, Mama. That's the one."
Her mother was out of her chair before Maya could say anything else, pulling her into a tight hug that smelled like garlic and rosewater perfume. "My girl," she said, her voice cracking slightly. "I always knew someone would see it."
Maya laughed, a short, disbelieving sound, and let herself be held for a moment. The pasta went cold on the table behind them. The kitchen light flickered once overhead, the way it always did in this old building, and neither of them paid it any attention.
"You have to call them back tonight," her mother said, pulling away and wiping at her eyes. "Don't leave them waiting."
"I will, Mama."
"And tomorrow —" her mother sat back down, still smiling, "— you march into that restaurant and you quit."
Maya looked down at the phone in her hand. Somewhere between the shock of the email and the relief flooding through her chest, she hadn't thought about that part yet — that saying yes to this meant saying goodbye to the job that had kept them afloat for four years, complaints and all.
"Tomorrow," she said quietly.
For once, the word didn't scare her.
