Page 2 of Her Cruel Empire
“Robin Rivers.” Mrs. Henderson fixes me with that look that made decades of five-year-olds confess to crayon-related crimes. “Promise me something.” She reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “Promise me you won’t give up on your dreams completely. I know you have responsibilities at home. But don’t let those responsibilities become an excuse to stop believing in yourself.”
I promise her, and I even sound convincing to my own ears. But dreams are for people who can afford them. And right now, I need to focus on keeping my family alive.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of coat and hat distribution and the controlled chaos of dismissal. I help zip jackets, tie shoes, and make sure everyone has their backpacks.
“See you on Monday, Miss Robin!” Sophia sings, and my heart breaks a little more. We haven’t made a big deal out of my leaving, because we agreed it was better for the kids that way. But now Sophia seems to have forgotten.
“No, sweetheart. Remember, I’m going away to try some new things. But Mrs. Henderson will take wonderful care of you.”
“But I like you better,” she says with the devastating honesty of a five-year-old.
“I like you, too. So very much.”
The classroom empties, leaving behind the battlefield of any good day with kindergarteners—scattered crayons, forgotten sweaters, and the lingering scent of childhood. I help Mrs. Henderson straighten up, wiping down tables and stacking chairs.
Then I grab my purse—a worn leather thing I found at Goodwill three years ago—and step into the harsh Vegas afternoon. The transition is always jarring. Inside the school, I’m surrounded by finger paintings and the innocent chaos of childhood. Out here, the real world waits with all its edges and complications.
I unlock my ancient Honda Civic, praying it starts on the first try. The engine turns over with a reluctant wheeze, and I pull out of the school parking lot, navigating through traffic toward the apartment complex I call home.
All the gleaming casinos are miles away from our apartment complex, which is in the middle of a neighborhood that’s seenbetter decades. The parking lot is more pothole than asphalt, and someone’s music thumps from a first-floor unit. I climb the interior stairs to the second floor, fishing my keys from my purse.
The smell hits me before I even open the door—tuna casserole—and my stomach grumbles as I enter. I skipped lunch today so that there’s be enough for the kids. A note is stuck to the refrigerator in Adrian’s scrawl:Dinner’s in the fridge. Maisie had a good day.
Adrian’s eighteen now, technically an adult, but he’s never gotten to be a kid. None of them have, really. I’ve tried to give them that, but some days I feel like I’m failing everyone.
Including myself.
I set my purse on the kitchen counter and call out, “I’m home!”
“Robin!” Maisie’s voice drifts over the back of the couch, weaker than I’d like but still bright. I find her wrapped in her faded blue blanket. She’s pale, with tired eyes, but she smiles to see me.
“Hey, baby girl.” I settle beside her, pulling her into a gentle hug. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” she lies. “Adrian made grilled cheese for lunch, and I ate it all.”
“That’s wonderful.” I search her face for signs of cyanosis and, finding none, I breathe a silent sigh of relief. “What are we watching?”
“Some cartoon. It’s new, I think.”
I settle in beside her, letting the mindless chatter of animated characters wash over me. These quiet moments with Maisie areprecious and terrifying. She’s getting worse, and we all know it. Maisie was born with a heart defect that was partially corrected with surgery when she was just a baby. Now, at 11, she needs further surgery. And she needs it soon.
The insurance company has been fighting it for months.
The front door opens and Alicia shuffles in, her backpack dragging behind her like an anchor.
“How was school, honey?”
“Awful.” She flops into the chair across from us, her blonde hair hanging in her eyes. “Mrs. Peterson assigned another essay, and I don’t even know how to start it. I read the book, but it didn’t makesense.”
“We’ll figure it out. Maybe Dane can help.”
“He’s already helping me with math.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I’m so stupid, Robin.”
“Hey.” I lean forward, catching her eyes. “You are not stupid. Your brain just works differently, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Some of the most brilliant people in the world struggled in school.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she nods anyway.
Dane wanders in from his bedroom, fifteen years old and carrying himself like the weight of the world rests on his broadening shoulders. His sandy hair needs a cut, and there’s that stubborn set to his jaw that means he’s about to argue with me about something.
