Gabriela

A Mother’s Choice

A Mother’s Choice

She leans against the cool metal of the balcony railing at a posh rooftop bar, the evening sky above downtown Miami slowly transitioning to dusk. Around her, the first lights of the city begin to flicker on, casting a soft glow as another silhouette blends into the multitude. ‘Hi, I’m…’ The name never matters; it’s just another part of the game.

She thinks of her daughter, getting ready for bed now, the reason she navigates this perilous path. Chloe’s laughter echoes in her ears, a stark contrast to the infernal house music of the bar.

She used to cringe at this life, at the weight of perceived silent judgments. Not anymore.

In her Coach clutch, the tools of her trade: roofies, burundanga (scopolamine), folded bandana to wrap her hair, dark sunglasses for the surveillance in lobbies, and the subtle weight of the butterfly knife – a silent promise of defense.

She had found the knife abandoned on a Metrorail seat one evening, a serendipitous discovery that now served as a cold reminder of the life she’d been forced into. She remembers the day she had to drop out of Miami-Dade College in the face of mounting bills and her daughter’s needs.

This is the better choice, she reassures herself, the one that doesn’t involve surrendering her dignity on a grimy stage to the sleazy grasp of men who cloak their lechery in dollar bills.

She recalls her first Tinder date, masking the overwhelming fear and uncertainty behind a carefully crafted facade. After lacing his Red Bull vodka, she later slid the expensive watch off the wrist of the passed-out buffoon who had kept grabbing her ass. At that moment, she had felt a mix of triumph and nausea.

She could’ve been behind a fast-food counter if any spots were left or driving strangers in the saturation of rideshares. But strong men, who could be hauling concrete, rather sit on their asses all day driving, taking jobs that single moms like her need. This city devours the naive.

So she turned her beauty into a weapon, a means to an end – the end being a roof over her daughter’s head and food in her belly, both of which her barber ex dodges, supporting her with a few meager dollars while he parties it up with the lion’s share.

She scans the faces, reading them like pages in a book she’s too familiar with. The tan lines of a ring, barely noticeable, tell her enough. They’re all the same, really; some hide it better. The good ones, though, tug at her conscience, a reminder of the fine line she treads.

But the landlord doesn’t trade in pity, and grocery stores don’t give handouts for remorse. So, she’s here, in this rooftop bar in Brickell, waiting.

The ding of her phone signals a match, another lonely soul looking for company. They never suspect the sweetness of her perfume masks the bitterness of the drug, ready to cloud their judgment, to make them pliable.

Her cousin, the familial black sheep, is on speed dial. Muscle if needed; he’s got the connections to fence what she acquires. It’s a family business, born of necessity, thriving on the city’s ceaseless appetite.

She rehearses her lines in her head, a prelude to the night’s performance. “Hi, I’m…” The lie tastes less bitter each time. It’s them or her, and she’s chosen survival, chosen this life over the raw, gritty reality of the stage, naked and exposed where dollar bills don’t equate to respect, over the shame in her daughter’s eyes.

A middle-aged man approaches, and she slips into character, her heart encased in ice. “Hi, I’m…” she’ll greet him with a smile and a lie. The truth is a luxury she can’t afford, not when every night is a gamble, every smile a mask, and every word a step in the dance of resilience.

Hi, I’m Vadim. I write tales blending life’s intricacies and possibilities. My stories are bridges to understanding humanity. I’d love for you to follow me (Vadim Dambreville). Subscribe for direct delivery of new explorations. 👇