The house was quiet except for the rhythmic creaking of the wooden beams above and the faint buzz of crickets outside. Lolita had just finished tucking Matteo into bed, his small body curled up under a blanket too thin for the cold nights that often swept through their town. He had fallen asleep with his toy car clutched in his hand, its chipped edges a testament to years of wear.
Lolita lingered at his bedside, her sharp brown eyes softening as she watched him. Matteo was everything pure in her life, the one thing that hadn't yet been touched by the ugliness of their reality. His face was peaceful, his breathing steady, and for a fleeting moment, Lolita allowed herself to feel something close to contentment.
But the moment passed quickly, as it always did. There was no room for softness in her life. She straightened, brushing a strand of her silky black hair away from her face, and stepped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
The faint glow of the kitchen lantern spilled into the narrow hallway, guiding her steps. Clara's voice, low and tired, drifted toward her, accompanied by the faint scrape of a spoon against a bowl. Lolita followed the sound into the next room, where her younger sister knelt beside their mother.
Their mother lay on a thin mat on the floor, her frail body barely more than a shadow of what it had once been. Her eyes, half-closed and unfocused, gazed at nothing in particular. Spittle dripped from the corner of her mouth as Clara carefully lifted a spoonful of watery broth to her lips.
"Come on, Mama," Clara murmured, her voice soft but insistent. "Just one more bite."
Lolita leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed, watching the scene with an expression that betrayed no emotion.
"How's she doing?" she asked finally, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
Clara glanced up, her dark eyes weary but calm. "She's eating. Slowly. At least she's keeping it down tonight."
Lolita stepped into the room, the floorboards creaking under her weight. She crouched down beside her sister, her sharp gaze fixed on their mother's gaunt face. The woman who had once been the backbone of their family was now a frail, coughing shadow, her skin pallid and stretched tight over her bones.
"She looks worse," Lolita said bluntly.
Clara shot her a look, a mixture of annoyance and sadness flashing across her face. "What do you want me to say? That she's getting better? She's not, Lolita. And we both know it."
Lolita didn't respond. Instead, she reached for the towel lying beside the bowl and wiped the spit from their mother's mouth with brisk, efficient movements. "Did she say anything today?"
Clara shook her head. "Just mumbled a little. I don't think she even knows where she is half the time."
Lolita let out a sharp breath, her lips pressing into a thin line. "We need to get her real medicine," she said, her voice low but firm.
"And how exactly are we supposed to do that?" Clara snapped, her exhaustion finally breaking through the thin layer of calm she had been holding onto. "We don't have money for food most days. How are we supposed to pay for medicine?"
Lolita didn't answer right away. She stared at their mother, her jaw tightening. "I'll figure something out," she said finally.
"You always say that," Clara muttered, her tone bitter.
Lolita turned to her sister, her eyes narrowing. "And I always do, don't I?"
Clara flinched at the sharpness in Lolita's voice but didn't back down. "At what cost, Lolita? You think I don't know what you've done to keep us afloat? I see the way you come home sometimes, the way you avoid looking at me or Matteo. I know it's not just oranges you're selling."
Lolita's expression hardened, her jaw tightening. "Don't," she warned, her tone icy.
"I'm just saying—"
"I said don't," Lolita snapped, cutting her off. "You don't know anything about what I've done. You think you'd survive out there? You think you have any idea what it takes to keep this family alive?"
Clara's eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away, refusing to let her sister see her cry. "I'm trying, Lolita. I'm trying to help. But you won't let me. You won't even let me get a job."
"Because you're not ready," Lolita said, her voice sharp and unyielding. "The world out there is dangerous, Clara. It'll eat you alive. You think you're tough, but you're not."
"And you are?" Clara shot back, her voice rising. "Is that what you tell yourself every time you come home with that look on your face? That you're tough? That you're doing the right thing?"
Lolita's hand shot out, grabbing Clara's wrist in a grip that was firm but not cruel. "Listen to me," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "You don't get to judge me. Not until you've been out there, not until you've had to make the choices I've made."
Clara wrenched her hand free, her eyes blazing. "Maybe I wouldn't have to make those choices if you'd just let me help. I'm not a child anymore, Lolita. I'm turning eighteen in a few weeks. I can handle myself."
Lolita laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and humorless. "Eighteen. Like that means anything. You think the world cares how old you are? You think the men in this town will care that you're just a kid? They'll chew you up and spit you out, Clara. And I won't let that happen."
Clara opened her mouth to argue, but the words died on her lips as their mother let out a low, rasping cough. Both sisters turned to her, their argument forgotten for the moment.
Lolita reached for the bowl of broth and lifted a spoonful to her mother's lips. "Here, Mama," she said softly, her voice losing some of its edge. "Just a little more."
Their mother's lips parted slightly, and Lolita carefully fed her the spoonful. She worked with the same efficiency she brought to everything, her movements precise and controlled.
Clara watched her sister, her anger fading into something closer to admiration. For all her sharp words and harsh edges, Lolita was the reason they were still standing. She was the one who kept them fed, kept them alive, even if it meant sacrificing pieces of herself along the way.
"You don't have to do it alone, you know," Clara said quietly, breaking the silence.
Lolita didn't look at her. "Yes, I do," she said simply.
The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding.
Eventually, Clara stood and stretched, her movements slow and tired. "I'm going to bed," she said, her voice subdued.
"Goodnight," Lolita said, her tone softer now.
Clara hesitated, then leaned down and kissed their mother's forehead before leaving the room.
Lolita stayed where she was, her knees aching from the hard floor. She fed her mother the last spoonful of broth, then set the bowl aside and gently wiped the older woman's mouth.
As she sat there in the dim light, her thoughts drifted to Monica—the woman who had given her the scar on her neck, the woman who had stripped away what little dignity she had left. The memory made her stomach churn, but she couldn't shake the thought that she might have to go back to her.
"I'll figure something out," Lolita whispered again, though this time, the words felt more like a prayer than a promise.
She stayed by her mother's side until the older woman drifted into a restless sleep, her breathing shallow and uneven. Only then did Lolita allow herself to lean back against the wall, her eyes closing as the weight of the day finally caught up to her.
Tomorrow would bring more struggles, more impossible choices. But for now, she allowed herself a moment of quiet, a moment to steel herself for whatever came next...