Page 31 - Demo

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of hope is ignited. Hungrily, my shimmering pupils scan the neat rows of announcements for familiar characters:
Security ($9,200). My brows twitch at the thought of Hope being home alone throughout the night.
Cashier ($11,000). My brows furrow further at the prospect of miscounting change.
Clerk ($15,100). My heart is racing at the fantasy of plump paycheque, but my knitted brows are now drawn so closely together that they almost touch. English? No.
My heart drops to the bottom of my stomach.
The scrunched ribbons fall from my hand, roll into the street and are flattened by a tram, screeching along its tracks.
I barely notice.
I am whisked back to when I was first told that my father absconded before my first fighting cries on earth could be heard. And then when my fragile mother began crying, unable to find the strength to crawl out of bed to peddle her makeshift cart in exchange for pennies, I left school at 13 to share and eventually shoulder the burden of scrounging enough to make ends meet.
Each day, I battled. I fought for a better life by working a string of menial jobs to begin a meagre savings. And when I met the love of my life, I envisioned a complete family. And when Hope came along, my cup of joy was full, it was brimming.
I smile ruefully at the once naive belief of “It can be. It can be.” A chance at a better life.
Hope is fatherless and her mother, now, jobless. Will she, too, succumb to the invisible chains of misfortune? Will she, too, tread in the same tragic footsteps as