Lost in the dark

No more waiting

There came a time when help was no longer enough.

The old woman had done more than I could ever repay. She brought food when she could, herbs when Dora fell ill, advice when I was unsure. But I could see it in her eyes—her strength was limited, her resources small. She was kind, not endless.

And Dora was growing.

Her needs were growing with her—milk, clothes, medicine, warmth. Every day, I calculated what little I had left, counting and recounting coins, stretching meals thinner than they should have been. Fear settled quietly in my chest, no longer sharp, just constant.

I knew I had to work.

Not someday.

Not when things got better.

Now.

I wanted to stand on my own. I didn’t want to depend on anyone anymore. I didn’t want Dora to grow up watching her mother beg or wait for mercy.

But work required opportunity—and opportunity required capital.

I thought about starting a small business. Something simple. Something honest. I turned ideas over in my head late at night while Dora slept beside me. Selling food. Small trading. Anything that could grow slowly, steadily.

But every idea stopped at the same place.

I had nothing to start with.

No savings.

No support.

No one to lend me money without asking questions I wasn’t ready to answer.

I felt stuck between desperation and dignity. I didn’t want shortcuts that would cost me my self-respect. I didn’t want paths that would put my child at risk. I wanted something clean, something safe.

Some evenings, I sat by the window holding Dora, watching the world move on without me. People passed by with purpose, with direction. I wondered if they knew how lucky they were to wake up with choices.

Still, giving up wasn’t an option.

Dora depended on me.

And even though I didn’t yet know how, I promised myself I would find a way—one step at a time, one honest effort at a time.

I had survived worse.

This, too, would not break me.