"Hey, buddy," she whispered, tapping his shoulder gently.
He slipped off his headphones and signed clumsily, "You're late." His fingers weren't perfect, but he was learning.
She smiled and signed back, "Work was busy."
Their mother lay on the couch, curled under a blanket, breathing softly. Her medication often made her drowsy. Naomi moved quietly, hanging her coat, washing her hands, and heating leftovers in the microwave—rice and beans from the community kitchen where she volunteered twice a week. It wasn't much, but it was warm. And warm mattered.
When she finally sat down, she let out a long breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Isaiah watched her with the kind of attentiveness that always surprised her. He touched her hand and signed, "You look sad. Bad day?"
She forced a small laugh. "Just work stuff," she said aloud, knowing he'd read her lips more than her voice. She didn't want to explain humiliation to an eleven-year-old. She didn't want him to ever know what it felt like to stand outside a door listening to people make entertainment out of your existence.
But her eyes drifted to the envelope tucked inside her bag, a sharp corner poking out as if reminding her of its presence. She pulled it out, staring at the gold lettering:
Carrington Foundation Winter Gala
Formal attire required.
She could almost hear the mocking tone, the laughter bubbling behind it.
Isaiah noticed the envelope. "Is that important?"
She shook her head quickly. "Not really. Just something from work."
He accepted her answer easily, nodding and returning to his workbook. But Naomi couldn't shake the feeling that her lie wasn't just to him; it was to herself. Because something inside her, a small stubborn ember, refused to be extinguished by the weight of ridicule.
She cleaned the kitchen quietly, humming under her breath—soft, familiar melodies she used to play on an old piano before life demanded other things. The rhythm steadied her heartbeat.
Later, when Isaiah was tucked into bed and the apartment had settled into its usual nighttime quiet, Naomi stepped out onto the fire escape. Cold metal pressed through her thin socks. She hugged her arms around herself, looking over the neighborhood. Distant sirens echoed somewhere beyond, mixed with laughter from teenagers on the corner and the rumble of a passing train.