Sacrifice Of Love

ChapterTwo:

Chapter Two

Pamela's POV

Flames of Resilience

The sun was dead serious in its attack as I struggled my way up toward the corner café with a tray of newly baked pasties. This was the only cooking gig I would ever get, and I couldn't afford to blow this. My apron was greasy, my hair dragged back into a hurried bun, my hands smeared with flour. The one thing that kept me running while approaching the small café down the street was a job.

No sooner had I stepped into that sun-soaked square than laughs drenched me like a bucket of cold water. Turning back, I saw kids from the town-to-town rich families languish around the fountain, smartly dressed. Anything but disheveled they were-branded clothes and careless chitchats an affront to my day-in and day-out struggle.

"Look at her," one of the boys called across the square loudly enough. "Is she here to clean or to cook?" The succeeding guffaws were as merciless as music; my face went beet red with the anger and humiliation. Impossible to shut them out, impossible to bear the sting of their words, I tried to focus on the café entrance.

"Watch where you're going, dirt girl!" this other girl sneered as her voice fell with disdain.

I grasped the tray tightly-my knuckles white. I had heard their teasing a thousand times before, yet it would never settle in my stomach. My dream would always be opening my restaurant, but on days like these, it just sounded well and truly like an impossible fantasy.

I went inside the cafe probably to shut out the teasing outside, which focused my attention on the opportunity ahead. Mrs. Dunlap was an owner of the cafe, a big round lady whose warm face really reflected all my struggles.

"Pamela dear," Mrs. Dunlap greeted me, "I hope you brought your best today."

"I did," I set the tray down. "I have some new pastries I think you will like."

She smiled and took a bit; her eyes lit up. "These are great! You have talent, Pamela. I will let you know if we can use you more often."

Relief washed over and then was quickly overtaken by the all-too-fleeting happiness torn from me as my eyes caught the window. There they were, the rich kids still hanging outside, their laughter cutting me down like a knife. I knew their eyes had been on me, their ridicule hanging in the air.

It was much later-it had to have been at the kitchen table later that night with Grandpa-that memory of jeering faces just wouldn't budge.

The kitchen was somber but for the one ceiling bulb turned on, dimly brightening up the space. I stirred a pot of soup, whose aroma filled the small apartment as my heart was heavy.

"How was your day, Pamela?" asked Grandpa softly-the echo in his voice truly did sound so concerned.

I huffed and laid the spoon down. "Just another day, Grandpa-I didn't get the gig, and the kids were bad again."

He sidled over to me, laying a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "I'm so sorry, dear; tough, I know."

"I just don't understand, they don't have to be so mean," I said, the frustration slipping into my voice. "I work so hard and it's like to them I am some sort of big joke."

Grandpa's eyes had a soft sadness in them.

My voice catches as I reply, "I just want to make something of myself. I want to prove to them that I am more than some poor girl living in some rundown part of town."

Grandfather took a big breath and put his reassuring hand on mine.

I looked up at him then, brimming over with tears. "I don't even know if I can do this anymore, because it just feels like everything is against me.".

Grandfather firmly but reassuringly took my hands into his. "Every great chef has gone through setbacks, and it is how you handle them that matters. What shall see you through is your strength and passion. I believe in you; know that you will do just fine. Know that you'll find a way to make it happen."

His words of reassurance, as were, soothed the ache in my heart little more than the bare minimum.

Of course, under the endless financial duress, this humiliation at spoiled-rotten rich kids' hands was just what poured salt into the wound of my lacerated soul-a gutty reminder of how far I had to go. Contrariwise, his encouragement was the spark of hope in the dark.

Then we had our meager dinner of soup and some stale bread. Wanting to look at the bright side, I felt at least that we were together-that meant much, really.

Yet, again, it was in the way Grandfather savored every bit-expression all delight over this scanty supper-and clung to hope that his belief in me would suffice to see me through.

Lying in bed, the silent night sent my thoughts drifting to the years in front of me.

This dream about the restaurant was so, so far, far away, but it raised my hopes little since Grandpa had said all those nice things. All that mocking laughter and financial struggle I'll endure not only for myself but for him.

I close my eyes, and from those words of Grandpa-the burning fire in me-knew it: that I'm gonna prove to everybody, to myself, I am beyond what happened with me.

Though ahead lay the tough road, in fighting for my dreams, how many obstacles stood in the way didn't matter.

Lying in bed, my head heavy with the trials of the day, still wafting through the darkness were small glowing embers of hope.

No doubt, tomorrow would have its set of trials, but I knew somehow that I'd rise above them. I promised myself the anger and frustration would be deep in my cooking to turn my adversity into strength.