The eviction notice flapped in the wind like a cruel joke taped to our door. FINAL WARNING – EVICTION IMMINENT. Third one this month. Fourth, maybe. I stopped counting.
I pushed it aside and stepped inside with a bag of groceries that felt heavier than it should. One can of beans, a loaf of bread, and a couple instant noodles. That was all eleven dollars and change could buy. My fingers were red from the plastic cutting into them. I could've stolen more if I wanted to. But I didn't.
Inside, the smell hit me first—bleach, meds, and something I didn't want to name. I heard her coughing in the bedroom. Deep, dry, and painful. Each time it hit, it made me flinch. Not because it scared me. But because I couldn't stop it.
I walked into the room.
There she was.
My mother, Maria Reyes. Once the toughest woman I knew, now a fading shadow under thin covers. She smiled when she saw me. It was the kind of smile that hurt to look at—fragile, stretched over pain like a blanket too small for the cold.
"You're home," she whispered, voice cracking. "You always come back."
I nodded and sat beside her, putting the groceries on the floor.
"I got beans again. Your favorite gourmet meal," I joked, trying to keep my voice light. But my hands shook.
She laughed, a quiet, wheezing laugh, then turned serious. Her eyes locked onto mine.
"I'm sorry, mijo..." she whispered.
I froze. "What?"
"I'm sorry I brought you into this cursed life. This... mess. You were supposed to have more than this." Her eyes welled with tears. "You're sixteen. You should be in school… with friends. Not—"She looked around the room. "Not here. Not like this."
My throat burned. I grabbed her hand.
"No, Ma. Don't say that. You did your best. You always have. We just got dealt a bad hand, that's all." I forced a smile. "But it's gonna be alright. I got a job."
That part was a lie.
She blinked. "You… got a job?"
I nodded quickly, leaning in so she couldn't see the truth in my eyes. "Yeah. It's nothing big yet. Just some online stuff. But it's a start." I grinned like it was real. Like we already won.
"Soon… I'll get you the best treatment, Ma. Real doctors. Real hospital. We'll beat this thing. You'll see."
She let out a tiny breath like she'd been holding the weight of the world and I took some of it off her shoulders. Her fingers squeezed mine weakly.
"It's not too late," I said. "You said it yourself—it's early. They caught it early. We just need time."
She didn't answer. But the corner of her mouth curled into a tired smile. Her eyes fluttered closed. Whether from pain or hope, I didn't know.
I stood up and walked into the living room, grabbing my busted laptop off the table. The screen flickered to life like it was struggling to breathe. Kind of like us.
"How to make money online fast (no scams)"Search. Scroll. Click. Close. Repeat.
None of it felt real. But the bills were. Her cancer was. That clock on the wall, ticking away the seconds we couldn't afford to lose—that was real.
Survey sites, paid ads, freelance stuff that wanted degrees I didn't have.I tried applying for a part-time position at McDonald's. They didn't even call me back. I guess even flipping burgers requires a diploma now.
Another rejection email blinked at me from the corner of the screen. "Thank you for applying, but we are seeking candidates with more experience."
More experience? I've been experiencing survival since I was ten. Does that count?
I leaned back in the chair and rubbed my face with both hands. I wasn't even tired—I was past tired. Past hungry. Past scared. There was just this numbness now. The kind that settles in when you start to think maybe this is it. Maybe this is how it ends. Quietly. Slowly. Without a fight.
Then, out of nowhere, a thumbnail caught my eye on YouTube: "Make $300 A Day With Uber Eats—Using Just Your Bike!"
I clicked without thinking. Some guy was recording himself riding through the city, delivering food, smiling like he just discovered a cheat code to life. No degree. No boss. Just hustle.
Three hundred bucks a day? Even if that was a lie, half of it would change everything.
I shot up from the chair like I'd been shocked. Ran to the garage and pulled the door open so fast the chain rattled like bones.
There it was—my bike.
A little dusty. Tires a bit low. But otherwise... perfect.
It still had the navy blue ribbon tied around the handlebars from my fourteenth birthday. I remember that day. Dad gave it to me with that half-grin of his. Said it was for when I wanted to "ride away from everything for a while."
I never thought he'd be the one who'd ride away and never come back.
He left for his final deployment three weeks after that. We got the letter six months later.
KIA. Killed in action. That was it. That was the whole explanation. Two lines in the mail and a folded flag.
I touched the handlebars gently, brushing off the dust. The metal was cold but familiar. Like shaking hands with an old friend.
"Alright," I muttered to myself. "Let's see if you still got it."
I wheeled the bike outside, checked the brakes, aired the tires. Everything still worked. The gears clicked. The chain held.
It felt like hope.
That night, I barely slept. I filled out the application, uploaded a photo, clicked every checkbox I needed to fake being ready. I didn't even have a phone plan—they said I'd need one. I'd figure that part out later.
I woke up the next morning to the sound of my phone buzzing.
Uber Eats: Your account has been activated. You're ready to start delivering.
I stared at the screen, not moving. Not breathing.
Then I smiled.
It was small, crooked, tired—but real.
For the first time in weeks, I didn't feel powerless.