Harley had a good feeling about this one. She tugged at her blazer, smoothing the fabric over her shoulders as she stepped into the interview room. Confidence was key, she reminded herself. And for once, she believed it. The manager was polite, even friendly. He smiled at her as she talked about her experience, asked thoughtful questions about her goals, and nodded along like he was genuinely impressed. When the interview ended, Harley shook his hand, her own slightly clammy, and allowed herself a small flicker of hope. She could see herself here—working steady hours, earning a paycheck, finally feeling like she belonged somewhere. But then came the familiar pause. The shift in his expression. “Harley,” he began, his voice careful, measured, “we really appreciate your time today, but…” That but. She could hear the rest before he even said it. “… we’ve decided to move forward with another candidate.” Her heart sank, but she kept her face steady, her smile polite. “Thank you for letting me know,” she said, her voice smooth, betraying none of the cracks forming inside her. She walked out of the office, her steps measured, her head held high. But as soon as she was outside, the weight of it hit her. Ten rejections. Ten times she’d been told she wasn’t good enough. She leaned against the brick wall, clutching her resume folder to her chest. The November air was sharp against her cheeks, but she didn’t feel it. All she felt was the familiar ache in her chest, the voice in her head whispering that she should have done better. She walked to her car and hunched over, tears began to form; her phone vibrated. It started with a phone call. “Harley, come over,” Luna said, her tone sharp and clipped. “I need to talk.” On the drive to her moms' Harley was not excited. Her headache splintered into sharp pulses, each beat of her heart thundering faster, echoing in unison with the chaos within. The car seemed to speed up with her heart. The drive had been an hour and felt only like 20 minutes. Her mother, like usual, opened the door before she knocked, peering through the window. When Harley walked into the dim, cluttered apartment, she found her mother at the kitchen table, gripping her usual mug of tea. Papers and unopened mail were scattered across the counter, dishes piled in the sink. Luna didn’t look up. “Thanks for coming,” she muttered, her voice low. Harley pulled out a chair and sat across from her. “Of course. What’s going on?” Luna sighed heavily, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. “I was thinking about everything I’ve lost,” she began, her voice laced with bitterness. “Your father, my friends, my job… all of it gone. And for what? For this?” She gestured vaguely around the room. “Do you know how many friends I had back in Puerto Rico? Real friends. People who actually cared about me. I left them all for him. And look at me now. Useless.” Harley kept her voice calm. “Mom, you’re not useless.” Luna snorted, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t patronize me, Harley. I’m not stupid.” “I’m not patronizing you,” Harley said softly. “I just think—” “Stop smiling,” Luna snapped, cutting her off. “Why are you always smiling like everything’s fine? Don’t you see how bad this is? Don’t you understand the severity of it all?” Harley blinked, startled by her mother’s intensity. “I understand, Mom. I just don’t think—” “No, you don’t,” Luna interrupted, her voice rising. “You don’t understand anything. You sit there with that stupid smile on your face, do you have no empathy?!" Harley turned her head away. She knew what punch was coming next. "You look" Luna paused, "you look just like him." She jabbed a finger toward the ripped photo of Harley’s father on the fridge, the edges jagged where Luna had torn it apart. “Mom…” Harley’s voice trembled slightly, but she kept her tone steady. “You look autistic or something,” Luna said coldly. “You look like you don’t even get it.” Harley’s chest tightened, anger bubbling just beneath the surface. “Mom, I get it. I get it because you tell me—every single day.” “No, I don’t,” Luna snapped.
“Yes, you do,” Harley said, her voice shaking now. She reached into her bag and pulled out her planner, flipping it open. “Look. On Saturday, you said you missed your old job. On Monday, you said you hated this apartment. Every day, it’s something." She sighed, "You complain, Mom. You complain all the time.” “I do not!” Luna’s voice cracked, her hands gripping the mug tighter. “Yes, you do,” Harley said, tears welling in her eyes. “And you know what? I feel bad for you, Mom. I really do. I feel bad that you’re stuck in this… in this sadness. And I feel bad that nothing I say seems to help.” Luna stared at her, her expression hard. “I just want you to know the truth." Her eyebrows clenched, "He never did anything but destroy this family!" She hunched forward, "Ruined my career, and left me to take care of the kids!" Luna pointed at Harley, her gaze locked in on her eyes. “Do I need to hear the 'truth' 200 times a month?” Harley questioned, her voice breaking. “I just… I just wish you would do better. It makes me sad to see you sad. Can you understand that?” “No,” Luna said flatly. “Because you’re the one who’s sad. Don’t sit there and pretend you’re fine when you’re not. You’re depressed. I can see it." Her mother's expression was cold. "You’re just like me.” Harley’s hands trembled as she wiped her cheeks quickly, not wanting her mother to see her cry. “I’m not depressed, Mom. I’m not like you.” “Yes, you are!” Luna said, her voice rising again. “You can’t get a job. You’ll never get married. You’ll never be happy. Face it, Harley—we’re the same.” Harley stood abruptly, pushing her chair back. She swallowed the lump in her throat and took a deep breath. “No, we’re not.” “Yes, we are,” Luna said, her voice cold. “You just don’t see it yet.” Harley grabbed her bag, her hands still trembling. She paused at the doorway, glancing back at her mother, who sat slumped at the table, her shoulders hunched, her eyes fixed on the scratched wood. “I love you, Mom,” Harley said softly. Luna didn’t respond. Harley stepped outside, the crisp November air stinging her cheeks. She let out a shaky breath, the tears she’d been holding back finally slipping down her face. She wiped them away quickly, her jaw tightening. I’m not like her, she thought. I refuse to be like her. For years, she’d carried the weight of her mother’s bitterness, her pain, her anger. But Harley couldn’t carry it anymore. She couldn’t fix Luna, no matter how much she wanted to. All she could do was make sure she didn’t follow the same path. Harley looked up at the gray sky, her chest still heavy but her resolve clear. She couldn’t save her mother. But she could save herself. The decision to quit her part-time job came quietly, but it felt monumental. Harley handed in her notice at Walmart, the familiar weight of dread lifting from her shoulders as she walked out for the last time. She didn’t have everything figured out yet, but for the first time, she felt like she was moving forward. She picked up her guitar again, playing late into the night, the calluses on her fingers returning slowly but surely. She started small—posting videos online, playing for herself. And then, one night, she signed up for an open mic at a small local restaurant. The audience was small—twenty people, at most—but they clapped when she finished her set, their applause filling the cozy space. The restaurant owner approached her after, a warm smile on his face. “You’ve got talent,” he said. “Come play here again sometime. How about once a month? We’ll pay you.” Harley agreed, her heart racing. She wasn’t making much yet, but it was enough to keep her going. For the first time in years, she felt like she was building something—like she was living the life she’d always dreamed of. A month later, Harley stood on the restaurant’s small stage again, her guitar slung over her shoulder. She strummed the final chord, her voice steady and sure. The applause came, warm and genuine, and she smiled—a real smile, not the brittle, forced one she’d worn outside that office after her tenth rejection. Harley glanced out at the small audience, her eyes landing on a young girl sitting near the back, watching her with wide eyes. For a moment, she saw herself in that girl—dreaming, hoping, wondering if she could ever make it. For the first time, Harleys' smile met her eyes. Not the forced, brittle smile she’d worn outside the office that day, but a real smile that shined. Because this time, she wasn’t holding back any tears. She was holding herself together.
