The Broken Shoes

POV: NORA.

An hour later, I am the walking dead. Every single nerve ending in my feet screams in blistering protest as I drag my exhausted body across town. I trekked my aching bones all the way to Viktor’s private tailor, retrieved his custom tuxedo, and hauled the heavy garment bag through the biting night air back to Midtown.

The private elevator doors slide open, dumping me directly into his sprawling foyer. I step off the polished metal grate and release a ragged sigh. One final, excruciating task on this Tuesday custom-designed by the devil himself.

My cheap heels clack a hollow rhythm against the pristine marble flooring as I emerge into the massive living room. The space is a cavern of unimaginable wealth. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows wrap around three sides of the penthouse, putting the entire glistening, bejeweled skyline of New York City on display. The furniture and finishes mirror the man who owns them—brutal, gorgeous, and freezing cold. The aesthetic is all matte black surfaces and unforgiving, sharp edges. Grotesque modern sculptures contort in the shadowy corners, casting eerie silhouettes. Stark, jagged paintings slash across the wide walls.

I once made the mistake of looking up the property records for this address. The sheer number of zeroes in the purchase price made nausea bubble in my throat. The most sickening part is that Viktor barely even lives here. He visits this sprawling architectural marvel maybe once a month, usually dragging whichever actress or runway model he happens to be dating that week. It is just a monument to his excess.

I carefully drape the expensive suit over the back of his massive black suede couch. Standing in the dead center of my boss's obscenely expensive personal space feels unnatural. The air smells sharply of industrial cleaning chemicals, but underneath the bleach and polish, I catch a lingering ghost of his signature cologne. The deep, woodsy scent wraps around my senses, making my heavy head swim.

My bones ache with a deep, consuming craving to just curl up on that pristine suede couch and sleep for the rest of eternity. But rest is a luxury I cannot afford. People are counting on me. Three little ones, specifically. So, closing my eyes is off the table.

Staring at the perfect, unblemished furniture, a sudden, sharp urge for petty vengeance rises in my chest. I want to ruin something. I want to leave a permanent mark on his untouchable world to make up for the agonizing wringer he put me through today.

My sister would not have hesitated for a fraction of a second.

"Tessa, don't you dare pee on his car!" I had hissed, grabbing desperately at the fabric of her coat.

But Tessa was already clambering up the hood of the gleaming Range Rover in her tiny, neon-pink nightclub dress, cackling like a deranged madwoman. I stood frozen on the asphalt, mortified. Her laugh was infamous across our entire college campus. I had no doubt someone was going to recognize that distinct sound, throw open their dorm window, and look out into the East Campus parking lot to catch the Mercer sisters up to no good.

Well, Tessa was the one up to no good. I was always the designated peacekeeper, forever trying to rein in her wild spirit. Not that my efforts ever mattered. Tessa lived life on her own terms. Always had. Always would.

When she had spotted my cheating ex-boyfriend's prized vehicle parked in the premier spot, a wicked spark ignited in her eyes. It was an idea she refused to ignore. Which is exactly how I ended up gripping her hand to keep her balanced while she squatted right there on the hood and let loose.

"Living well is the best revenge," I had told her earlier that evening, trying to talk her out of her reckless plotting.

Tessa just scoffed, adjusting her dress as she hopped down from the bumper. "Screw that," she declared, her eyes shining with fierce defiance. "Don't get even, get ahead. That's my motto."

"You're insane," I told her, shaking my head as we hurried away from the scene of the crime. "Clinical."

"And yet you love me. What does that say about you?"

"Nothing good," I muttered.

She poked me hard in the ribs, hitting the exact ticklish spot she knew I hated since we were toddlers. "Shut up. Say it. Say you love me."

"Fine! Fine! I love you!" I shrieked, batting her hands away as we stumbled down the sidewalk.

Only then did she relent, a triumphant grin spreading across her flushed face. "Good. I love you, too, Nor. You're the stars to my moon. Never forget that."

Then, just to seal the moment, she turned around and mooned me. We both collapsed into fits of laughter, our voices blending together—two sides of the same worn coin, drifting up into the freezing night sky.

I never imagined a reality without her in it.

The memory fades, leaving a cavernous ache in the center of my chest. I stare at Viktor’s fifty-thousand-dollar couch and swallow hard. I am not Tessa. I lack her fearless, chaotic fire. I am not going to ruin his pristine furniture. And she is not here to do it for me. It has been exactly three years, six months, and four days since the accident.

With a heavy, rattling sigh, I turn my back on the glittering skyline and slump out of the freezing penthouse.

The commute from the gleaming towers of Midtown to my cramped, decaying apartment building in Hell’s Kitchen is a grueling endurance test. The subway car rattles aggressively, the flickering fluorescent lights casting sickly shadows over the grime-coated windows. Every jolt of the tracks sends a dull throb up my spine. When I finally reach my stop, I drag myself up the street, only to face four steep flights of stairs because the building's elevator is broken yet again.

I am practically salivating at the mere prospect of hitting a pillow. But the second I unlock my front door and push it open, a molar-grinding wave of disaster hits me square in the face.

Sleep just vanished from the menu.

My tiny apartment is a war zone. Empty brown beer bottles are scattered across the cheap coffee table and knocked over onto the stained carpet. Piles of the kids’ unwashed clothes sit in the corner, radiating a damp, sour smell. The tiny kitchen sink is stacked dangerously high with crusted, dirty plates.

I do not have to search for the culprit.

Derek, my late sister’s widower, is passed out in the corner armchair. His head is thrown back, his mouth hanging open as he emits a wet, rattling snore. A half-smoked cigarette dangles precariously from his loose fingertips, the ash threatening to drop onto the frayed upholstery. His other hand loosely clutches the dregs of a lukewarm can of Bud Light.

Since losing his job, Derek has devolved into a useless, wallowing ogre. He spends his days drinking, chain-smoking, and muttering bitterly to himself. When he actually deigns to interact with his own children, he does it with spit-flecked bellowing, flying into a blind rage over the smallest inconveniences. Just the other day, he made five-year-old Riley sob uncontrollably because her cheap scrunchie snapped while he was trying to put her hair in a ponytail. He yelled as if a kindergartener had planned the sabotage.

Resentment bubbles up my throat, thick and acidic. I want to scream at him. I want to flip the chair and demand he step up and act like a father.

Instead, I force the burning rage back down. I march over to the armchair, carefully pluck the lit cigarette from his slack fingers, and stub it out in the overflowing ashtray to prevent the building from burning down. I pry the beer can from his other hand and hurl it into the recycling bin. The crash makes him startle for a brief second before he sinks right back into his drunken coma.

Derek is the curse of my existence. We all took Tessa’s death hard. She was a blinding light, and living without her feels like existing in a permanent shadow. But the kids and I kept putting one foot in front of the other, no matter how much the grief threatened to drown us. Derek just laid down in the mud and refused to get back up. I keep telling myself to grant him grace, hoping he will eventually pull himself out of this dark rut. But the ugly truth is, I never really liked him to begin with. I tolerated him solely for Tessa’s sake. Without her here to bridge the gap, looking at his useless, drunken face makes my skin crawl.

I shake my head, banishing the dark thoughts. Wallowing in bitterness will not fix this mess. The world is not built to be kind to people like me. If I want this cramped, dirty space to feel like a home for Jace, Chloe, and Riley, I have to do the heavy lifting myself. Silently. Unthanked.

I drop my heavy purse on the cracked linoleum counter, roll up the sleeves of my blouse, and get to work.

For the next agonizing hour, I transform into a ghost haunting my own kitchen. I gather the empty glass bottles and toss them into the trash. I haul the damp, sour-smelling clothes into the tiny dryer. I stand over the sink, the water running scalding hot over my raw, aching knuckles as I scrub congealed food off plastic plates and metal forks. I towel them dry and stack them away in the cabinets, watching the chaotic mess slowly dwindle into a manageable state.

On the wall, the clock's second hand ticks relentlessly. The bright red numbers glare at me. 1:00 A.M. shifts into 1:30, then 2:00.

I need to be back at Vanguard by quarter to six in the morning. Factoring in the brutal crosstown traffic, I am looking at a maximum of three hours of sleep before the nightmare starts all over again.

By the time I finally dry my hands, the clock reads 2:30 A.M. I am running purely on fumes. I zombie-walk my way down the narrow hallway. My bedroom beckons, offering a brief escape from this crushing reality, but I cannot collapse just yet. I have to check on the littles.

The girls’ room is the first door on the right. I push the wood open slowly to avoid waking them and peek inside the dark space.

Chloe is fast asleep on the top bunk. One small, fragile hand dangles over the safety rail. I tiptoe across the thrifted pink shag rug, reach up, and gently tuck her arm back onto the mattress so the monsters underneath cannot grab it. I pause, holding my breath to listen. Her breathing is so shallow when she sleeps that it is practically imperceptible. During her first few weeks under my roof, I used to sit by the bed for hours, terrified she would stop breathing on my watch.

Once I am satisfied she is safe, I crouch down to peer into the bottom bunk. Riley is a deep sleeper. She snores with a rhythmic, comical cadence, puffing the air out of her cheeks like a cartoon character. Her dark hair has fallen across her face, sticking to her skin. I reach out and softly smooth the strands away. Looking at those round, cherry-apple cheeks sends a sharp pang through my chest. She looks just like her mother. I stare at her peaceful face, a heartbreaking question echoing in my mind. Does she even remember Tessa? She was so little when we lost her.

I swallow the lump in my throat, retreat back into the dim hallway, and pull the door shut with a soft click.

I take two steps down the hall and push open Jace’s door.

I frown, my brow furrowing in the shadows. The eight-year-old's bed is empty. The sheets are smoothed over and tucked in neatly at the edges. He makes his bed perfectly every single morning, unprompted, desperately trying to maintain some semblance of order in this chaotic household.

If he is not in bed, where is he?

My gaze sweeps the tiny room, stopping at the small desk crammed into the corner.

Jace is slumped forward in the wooden chair, his face pressed flat against the cheap laminate surface. He is out cold. His small hands are resting in his lap, tightly clutching a bundle of fabric and rubber. I walk over, thoroughly confused by the strange shape, and gently pry his fingers open to pull the object into the weak light filtering from the hallway.

When I realize what I am holding, the floor drops out from beneath my feet.

It is his basketball shoes. We bought them from a local thrift store a few months ago, and they were already scuffed and worn down back then. Now, they are ruined beyond repair. The heavy rubber soles have detached from the canvas, creating wide, gaping holes at the toes.

Jace had not asked me for a new pair. He had not said a single word about the damage.

Instead, this sweet, perceptive little boy had taken crumpled wads of white paper towels and strips of silver duct tape, attempting to patch the gaping holes himself. He tried to build a crude, desperate bridge over the broken rubber, binding the torn canvas together to keep the shoes functional.

A hot, stinging tear leaks over my lashes and tracks down my cheek.

Since he moved into this cramped apartment, Jace has not done a single thing for himself. Every action he takes is for his younger sisters. He is the one who forces Riley to eat her vegetables at dinner. He sits patiently on the floor and helps Chloe paint her fingernails. He does his own chores, then quietly finishes theirs. He checks their messy homework assignments. He is only eight years old, yet he acts as the final, desperate thread holding this broken family together.

When he shyly admitted last week that he wanted to join the school basketball team this year, I wanted nothing more than to make that simple dream a reality.

But the math just refused to work.

Viktor pays a decent salary, but surviving in New York City is a grueling financial battle. Raising three growing children, while supporting a grown man who drinks away the grocery budget, bleeds my bank account dry. The money vanishes the exact second it hits my hands, leaking out through a million different holes. School clothes, heating bills, skyrocketing rent, groceries. The list never ends.

Jace knows that. I do not even have to wake him up to ask why he was doing this. He stayed up in the middle of the night, silently taping his broken shoes together, because he knows his aunt is drowning.

This realization shatters the brittle armor I wear every day.

My knees give out. I sink heavily to the worn carpet, pressing my spine against the thin drywall, and curl my knees to my chest.

I burst into tears. I press both hands hard against my mouth to muffle the sound, terrified of waking the boy sleeping mere feet away. The sobs rip their way up from the darkest, deepest depths of my soul, shaking my entire frame.

I weep for my dead sister, mourning the bright light that was stolen from us too soon. I cry in frustration over my arrogant, demanding billionaire boss who treats me like a disposable machine. I shed bitter tears over Derek, the heavy anchor dragging this family straight into the abyss. And I cry for the crushing, relentless burden of raising three innocent children without a safety net, without a single moment of rest, without a sliver of hope that tomorrow will be any easier.

The list of miseries just goes on and on. One devastating reason for every single tear falling onto my lap. I sit on the floor of this cramped, freezing apartment, clutching a pair of duct-taped sneakers, hitting absolute emotional rock bottom.

Eventually, the violent sobs begin to subside. My chest heaves, and my eyes burn with a vicious, rhythmic ache. The suffocating silence of the apartment presses in on me from all sides.

I wipe my wet, swollen face with the back of my sleeve and force myself to take a shuddering breath.

What would Tessa say to me right now? I stare at the ceiling, waiting for a ghost to answer. She cannot speak to me, but I know exactly what her fierce, stubborn voice would sound like. She would tell me to stand back up.

I force a hollow, desperate optimism into my lungs, locking the grief away behind a heavy door in my mind. Things have to get better. If I just keep pushing forward, the universe has to cut us a break.

They surely cannot get any worse.