Mrs. Mercer snorts. “I want to die in my own chair with my own ugly wallpaper around me. Which I plan to do if everyone would kindly stop proposing better ideas.”
You laugh, and she smiles. It transforms her face briefly, like sunlight finding old stained glass.
But something shifts in you after that. Until then, you had been treating her life as fragile. Now you begin seeing how much of it is also under siege.
Final exams arrive. You are exhausted, underprepared, and one bad surprise away from falling apart. Mrs. Mercer notices before you say anything. She points to the kitchen table and says, “Sit.”
You sit.
She studies your face as if reading small print. “You’re carrying too many bricks.”
“Just finals.”
“And the diner. And tutoring. And me.” She nods once, almost to herself. “Children should not have to earn adulthood like this.”
You laugh softly. “I’m not a child.”
