Divorced; Starting over with an Alpha

The boxes in my arms were heavy, blocking most of my view, and I still couldn’t tell how far the back door was from the kitchen. You’d think I’d have it figured out by now—six months in. Red hot searing pain sent stars through my vision. I sucked in a deep breath and started counting to ten, no thirty. Ten wasn’t going to be enough. I needed to re ground myself and not scream. The throb radiating from my hip meeting the rusted door handle was staring to fade. I took deep steady breathes until I felt okay again. I sighed feeling myself come back down to earth. It was going to leave a nasty bruise, no doubt. But I’ve had worse. I let out a quiet laugh. Honestly, I’m a mess in every possible way these days. But what choice do I have? Staying positive is the only thing keeping me upright. I need this job—more than I care to admit. I don’t smoke, but I still take my breaks outside. Usually means hauling the trash out with me. Tina, the manager, gives me an extra ten minutes for it. Fair trade, I guess. Stacking the boxes by the door I run back inside. Mindful of the door this time. As I drag the last bag of trash behind me, the wave of stench from the garbage hits like a slap to the face. My stomach turns, bile rising in the back of my throat, but I push through it. The dumpster’s already overflowing. I add to the pile and look away, trying not to gag. Disgusting—but at least it’s quiet out here. No kitchen noise. No angry customers complaining about rubbery pancakes or burnt toast. Just me, the alley, and the occasional rat. They keep their distance, and so do I. I walk to the end of the alley and lower myself onto my usual spot—an old milk crate that’s been here longer than I have. Twenty whole beautiful minutes without people. I glance down at my shoes—worn, cracked, barely holding together. My feet throb inside them, but new ones aren’t in the cards right now. I’m already two hundred short on rent. There’s a tiny patch of grass by my foot, breaking through the cracked pavement. Right in the center, a single purple flower blooms. It’s almost too small to notice, I’m sure I’ll be the only person to ever see it. Somehow, this little delicate flower is thriving. I reach for the locket around my neck and roll it between my fingers. Inside is a photo of my daughter. A tear escapes, slipping silently down my cheek. If that little flower can make it against insurmountable odds, pushing through broken concrete then so can we, baby girl. I close my eyes and picture her face. Soft auburn curls. Rosy cheeks. Thick lashes framing those deep forest green eyes. The same eyes I once got lost in. She has my hair, but her father’s eyes. With my phone in hand, I scrolled through old photos, trying to slip back into a happier time. Then came Scarlett’s face—my daughter, just days old. Her newborn photos still made my chest ache. That moment should have been one of the best of my life. But none of us knew that just three months later, our world would be unrecognizably shattered. I kept swiping, trying to hold back the tears. I paused on one picture—once my favorite. Scarlett lay swaddled in her pink hospital blanket, tiny and brand new. Her little fingers curled tightly around mine, her skin still wrinkled and flushed from birth. I remembered looking down at her with more love than I thought I was capable of. I looked closer at that little hand, the way she held on like she already sensed how hard life might be. As if she knew what would happen. But I wasn’t going to give up—not on her, not on us. That wasn’t even a choice. A loud slam from the back door snapped me back to reality. “I kn-n-n-know you’re out here, M-Miss Moooollllyyy!” Perfect. My favorite drunk regular. Wayne stumbled into the alley behind the diner. It wasn’t even four o’clock and he was already well past buzzed. In his defense, he was a kind soul—just a broken one. His wife and son had died twenty years ago in a car crash, and some pain, I guessed, never really lets go. I wrapped my arms around myself against the sudden chill. If I ever lost Scarlett like that I’d shatter. “Molly, the buh-bartender said no more,” Wayne slurred, hiccupping. “C-c-can I get a ride, babe?” “I’m on the clock until nine, Wayne,” I said gently. “But I can ask Stan to drive you up the road.” Wayne cringed. “N-no thanks. His car smells like wet dog.” He burped. “S-sorry, Miss Molly.” His eyes dropped with shame, and I knew he meant it. Even drunks have standards, I guess. “Alright, let me talk to Tina and see what she says.” I sighed, already feeling the weight of the long shift ahead.