Lolita arrived home just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting the small, crumbling house in a warm orange glow. She pushed open the rickety wooden door and was greeted by the faint smell of onions frying in oil. In the cramped kitchen, her younger sister Clara stood over the stove, stirring a pot of soup. At 17, Clara was still growing into her beauty. She had the same dark hair and green eyes as Lolita, but her face was softer, her expressions warmer.
The house smelled faintly of onions and salt as Lolita walked into the cramped kitchen. Clara was at the stove, stirring a pot of soup that looked far too thin to feed everyone. Her younger sister had tied her long black hair into a messy bun, and the loose strands clung to her face in the heat of the tiny room. The kitchen was barely functional: peeling paint on the walls, a crooked window that didn't quite shut, and a single burner that had to be tapped just right to light.
"Welcome back," Clara said without looking up, her tone light but tinged with fatigue.
Lolita set her bag of unsold oranges on the counter and leaned against it, watching her sister work. "How long has that been cooking?" she asked.
"Long enough," Clara replied with a small shrug. "I added a little more water to stretch it. There's not much left in the pantry."
Lolita sighed and rubbed her temples. "Of course there isn't," she muttered, her voice thick with frustration. She glanced at the pot and knew it wouldn't be enough to fill Matteo's growing appetite, let alone hers or Clara's. But what could she do? This was their lifeâstretching everything thin, hoping it would be enough.
Just then, Matteo burst into the kitchen, holding his worn plastic toy car in one hand. His face lit up when he saw Lolita. "You're home!" he exclaimed, running to her.
Lolita bent down to scoop him into her arms, her exhaustion momentarily melting away as she hugged him tightly. "How's my favorite little genius?" she asked, ruffling his hair.
"I finished my math homework before everyone else!" Matteo said proudly, his chest puffing out.
"Of course you did," Lolita said with a small smile. "You're the smartest kid in the whole school."
Matteo beamed at the praise before wriggling out of her arms and running back to the living room to play with his toy. Lolita straightened, her smile fading as reality set back in. She turned her attention to Clara, who was now ladling the soup into three mismatched bowls.
"Here," Clara said, handing her a bowl. "It's not much, but it's all we've got."
Lolita took the bowl and sat down at the small wooden table, which wobbled slightly under her weight. Clara joined her, and for a moment, they ate in silence, the only sound the clinking of their spoons against the bowls.
Finally, Clara broke the quiet. "I've been thinking," she began, her voice hesitant.
Lolita looked up, her brow furrowing. "About what?"
"I want to get a job," Clara said, meeting her sister's gaze. There was a determination in her eyes that Lolita hadn't seen before.
Lolita set her spoon down and shook her head immediately. "No. Absolutely not."
"Why not? I'll be 18 in December. I'm old enough," Clara argued, her tone firm.
"Old enough?" Lolita scoffed. "You don't know what you're talking about. The world out there is dangerous, Clara. You're not ready for it."
Clara crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. "And you are? You act like you're the only one who can do anything around here, but I'm not a child, Lolita. I can help."
Lolita's jaw tightened. "You don't understand. It's not just about workingâit's about what people will expect from you, what they'll take from you. You've seen how things are in this town."
Clara's expression softened slightly, but she didn't back down. "I don't want to sit here doing nothing while you kill yourself trying to keep this family afloat. It's not fair."
Lolita's chest tightened at her sister's words. She wanted to protect Clara, to shield her from the harsh realities of their world, but she couldn't find the right words to explain why it was so important.
"Go back to school, Clara," Lolita said finally, her voice quieter now. "Finish your education. That's how you'll help."
Clara looked away, her shoulders slumping. "I can't go back," she said softly.
Lolita froze. "What do you mean?"
"I was kicked out," Clara admitted, her voice thick with shame. "They sent me home because we couldn't pay the fees."
Lolita's heart sank. She hadn't known. She stared at her sister, guilt washing over her. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"What difference would it make?" Clara said, her voice tinged with bitterness. "You're already doing everything you can. I didn't want to make things harder for you."
Lolita leaned back in her chair, staring at the cracked ceiling. It felt like the walls were closing in on her, the weight of their struggles crushing her. "Damn it," she muttered under her breath.
Clara reached out and placed a hand on her sister's arm. "We'll figure it out," she said softly.
But Lolita couldn't share her sister's optimism. Her mind was already racing, searching for solutions. And then, like a shadow creeping into her thoughts, the memory of Miss Monica surfaced.
Monica was the owner of a pub and a small casino in the center of town. She was a woman with a reputation for cruelty, a predator who preyed on the desperate. A few months ago, Lolita had gone to Monica, begging for a loan to pay for their mother's medicine. Monica had agreed, but when Lolita couldn't repay the money on time, the woman's true nature had emerged.
Lolita could still remember the night Monica's men had come for her. They had dragged her to the back room of the casino, where a group of older men waited, their leering faces burned into her memory. Monica had stood by, cold and detached, as if this were just another transaction.
One of the men had been particularly cruel. He had pressed a lit cigarette against her neck, leaving a scar that still throbbed whenever she thought about it. The humiliation, the painâit had all but shattered her.
She was grateful her mother had been at a clinic for a check-up that day and that Matteo had been at school. At least they hadn't been there to witness her being dragged from the house like an animal.
Now, as she sat in the kitchen with Clara, the memory made her stomach churn. She touched the scar on her neck absentmindedly, her fingers tracing the raised skin.
"I can't go back to Monica," she whispered, more to herself than to Clara.
Clara frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"Nothing," Lolita said quickly, shaking her head. "It's nothing."
But it wasn't nothing. It was everything. The debt, the scarsâboth visible and invisibleâthe constant weight of responsibility, the fear of failing her family. It was all too much.
As Clara cleared the table, Lolita sat in silence, her thoughts racing. She didn't know how much longer she could keep this up, how much more she could endure. But one thing was certain: she would do whatever it took to protect Matteo and Clara, to make sure they didn't suffer the way she had.
Even if it meant sacrificing herself all over again.