In her arms, her eight-month-old daughter, Daisy, shifted weakly against her shoulder and let out a soft, tired whimper. It was not the full, urgent cry of a hungry infant. It was quieter than that, the small uncertain sound of a baby who had already begun to learn that sometimes crying did not immediately bring food.
The sound tightened something painfully deep inside Lillian’s chest.
She gently rocked from one foot to the other, her body still aching from the long shift she had finished only an hour earlier.
“I know, sweetheart,” she whispered softly, pressing her cheek against the baby’s warm hair. “I’m trying, okay? Mama’s trying.”
Outside the narrow window, distant bursts of fireworks cracked and shimmered somewhere across the city. Lillian could not see them from her angle, but she could hear the cheerful pops and whistles drifting through the cold winter air.
It was New Year’s Eve.
In apartments across the city, people were probably pouring champagne, laughing loudly, counting down the minutes until midnight while making hopeful promises about travel plans, new careers, and better habits.
Lillian wondered vaguely what it must feel like to make resolutions instead of calculations—calculations about rent, bus fare, diapers, and groceries.
She set the empty container on the counter beside her wallet.
Inside were three crumpled bills and a few coins.
