The sun set behind the old apartment building where Aimee lived, casting a soft golden light that flickered like a fleeting dream. She leaned against the window, the cool glass against her forehead, her gaze drifting out to the familiar neighborhood below. The fading light of day was soft, almost melancholic, as if it, too, knew that the night was coming, and it was reluctantly pulling away.
She watched the little kids play in the dusty street, their laughter rising into the air like a sweet, untamed melody. Some of them had worn shoes, others didn't, but they all moved with the same carefree energy, their feet kicking up the dirt as they ran and chased each other, weaving in and out of the shadows. They were oblivious to the struggles that had long cast a shadow over the street—oblivious to the hardships that had aged the faces of the women standing in groups along the sidewalks, gossiping about anything and everything. Their voices were like the distant hum of a bee, light and insistent, sharing the small details of their lives.
"Trenches," Aimee muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes. Her lips curled into a half-smile that held no real humor, just a weary recognition of how the days passed in an endless cycle of routine. The women stood there, chatting about neighbors, work, and the usual gossip that circulated like clockwork. Sometimes, Aimee would find herself listening in, but it always felt like an echo from a different world, one that she didn't quite belong to, despite the fact that she lived here.
Aimee had always seen this place as a constant reminder of her own struggles—like everyone who lived here, she felt the weight of the everyday. The creaking of the building, the thin walls that didn't block the sounds of the street, the persistent hum of traffic in the distance, and the scent of the city mixed with the dust—these were the details of life that seemed to hang in the air, reminding her that there was no escaping the grind. This was home, but it wasn't a place where dreams flourished. It was a place where survival was the priority, where the act of living often felt like an endurance test.
Aimee's mother, Paola, lay in the small bedroom behind her, coughing weakly, the sound ragged and hollow, like an echo of something broken. Aimee could hear it even from the kitchen, though the walls weren't thick enough to muffle the sound. Maria, her older sister, was attending to their mother as she always did—her movements careful and practiced, as though she had been doing this for years. Maria had stepped into the role of caretaker long ago, ever since their father left, leaving Paola to raise them alone. Aimee had always admired Maria's strength, but there was a certain quiet sadness that lingered around her, as though the weight of their shared responsibilities had somehow become too much for her to bear.
The sound of Paola's cough echoed through the cramped apartment, pulling Aimee from her thoughts. She turned away from the window, blinking quickly as if trying to shake off the weight of the world outside. She walked across the worn floor, each step familiar, the faded tiles creaking under her feet. The scent of beans, rice, and salsa began to fill the air as she entered the kitchen, where Maria had already begun preparing dinner. It was the same meal they had eaten countless times before—simple, inexpensive, and enough to feed the family for another evening. Aimee could practically taste it just from the smell—soft, comforting, and just enough to satisfy their hunger.
Maria glanced up as she stirred the beans in the pot, noticing Aimee standing by the table, her fingers absentmindedly tapping the edge of a spoon. Maria's patience was running thin, but she still kept her tone calm, even though she could see the familiar signs of Aimee's reluctance to pitch in.
"You can assist me with the cooking, you know," Maria said, her voice gentle but firm. "I'll take care of mother."
Aimee rolled her eyes as she dragged her feet toward the table, her steps slow, as if the weight of the world was in each movement. She slumped into the chair, sitting down with a resigned sigh. The spoon lay in front of her like an unspoken task, and she gave it a few lazy spins, pushing it around the plate without any real interest. The aroma of the food filled the room, but Aimee hardly noticed it. The mundane task felt like a routine she could never escape, and tonight, more than ever, she wasn't in the mood for this—yet again, it felt like her life was revolving around these chores, her mother's deteriorating health, and Maria's constant reminders that she needed to step up and help. It was the same conversation, the same demands, the same obligations that made the walls of the small apartment feel even tighter.
"Fine," Aimee muttered, her voice thick with disinterest, as if the very idea of it was some weight that was too heavy to carry. She half-heartedly played with the spoon, her mind clearly somewhere else—anywhere else but here. Her thoughts wandered back to the window she had just left, the evening sky slowly darkening as the world outside seemed to move on, while she was stuck in this never-ending cycle of responsibility.
Maria, her older sister, let out a small sigh, the sound of it heavy with the exhaustion Aimee had long grown used to hearing. Maria didn't stop moving, though. She worked with purpose in the kitchen, stirring the pot with practiced hands, her focus unbroken. She had always been the one to keep things running, to hold everything together, to keep up with the endless demands of the house. Aimee knew Maria was tired, but she never complained, never asked for help beyond the occasional reminder that Aimee should be more involved. And it wasn't that Aimee didn't care; it was just that it felt like it was all too much sometimes—too much to bear alone, too much to manage.
"I'll get a second job to help with mother's hospital bills," Maria added, her voice heavy with the weight of her decision. "I can't keep up with the expenses on just my salary from the kindergarten. It's barely enough."
Aimee's gaze flicked up at the mention of the second job. Her stomach twisted in a way that wasn't entirely from the hunger gnawing at her insides. It was the thought of Maria stretching herself even thinner, taking on more work, more responsibility—while Aimee remained in this cycle of passive resistance. The truth was, Aimee couldn't deny that she had been waiting for this moment to come, for Maria to crack under the pressure, for her to finally take that step, no matter how exhausting it would be.
'Finally,' Aimee thought to herself, but the thought didn't carry relief—it was more of an acknowledgment, a quiet resignation to the reality that their lives were only going to get harder.
"Yes, you should," Aimee responded flatly, her voice distant, as if the suggestion didn't impact her at all. She leaned back in the chair, the words leaving her mouth without any inflection, as though she were just reciting something that had already been decided. It was a defensive response, one that reflected her frustration at the situation, at how everyone in the family seemed to be carrying such heavy burdens—except for her, who had always stood at the sidelines, feeling as though she were only waiting for the next demand to fall on her shoulders.
Maria's movements slowed for a moment. She stopped stirring the pot, turning toward Aimee with a quiet, steady gaze. Her eyes softened just slightly, as if trying to read the distance in her younger sister's posture. The kitchen was filled with the sound of the simmering beans, but in that moment, the space between them felt heavy with unspoken things. Maria was tired, but she wasn't giving up.
"And you too," Maria said, her voice steady, but it held a quiet firmness that Aimee couldn't easily dismiss.