Second Hand Waitress

“Kira, we haven’t seen you in months,” Sheila May, the bakery owner, said excitedly when Kira walked in. She beamed and hurried around the counter to give Kira a hug.

Sheila May was short and pleasantly plump, with unnaturally brassy red hair always thrown into a messy bun. She wore heavy makeup and had glasses perched at the tip of her nose. She had a habit of peering over them when talking to someone, making her look like a strict librarian. She hugged Kira tightly—despite Kira being only a couple of inches taller—enveloping her in a strong cloud of perfume.

Sheila May had been a talented pastry chef in her younger years before retiring and opening this bakery. Now, she ran baking workshops for kids and adults alike. She had often tried to get Kira to help out with some of the classes, but Kira had always resisted. Teaching felt like a final admission that she wasn’t going to make it as a professional baker. And as she had told Becky, she didn’t think she had the patience or passion to guide others in mastering the craft. That realization made her feel selfish.

Even though she hadn’t worked in a proper bakery for over three years, she had never completely given up on her dream. But now, with the pregnancy, she had to face the truth. It was time to accept reality and move forward.

“I’ve been dealing with some personal stuff,” Kira explained. “Can I rent some time in the kitchen?”

“Of course you can,” Sheila May said with a wave of her hand. “It’s quiet right now, and I’ve got no classes scheduled.”

“Thanks, Sheila May.”

Ten minutes later, as she started kneading dough, she could feel the tension easing from her muscles. The familiar rhythm of the process felt like a warm, comforting embrace. She cleared her mind and focused only on her movements—measuring, mixing, kneading.

She had brought her own playlist, and as soft piano music played in the background, she carefully shaped the dough. She worked slowly, respecting the fatigue that still lingered due to her pregnancy.

By the time she started rolling out the dough for pastries, she could feel a slight ache in her wrist, but she kept going. She wanted her child to grow up surrounded by the joy of baking, just as she had. If her child didn’t love it as much as she did, that was fine too—she just hoped they would find something that brought them happiness.

She reached for a tray of cupcakes she had decorated earlier and carefully piped the final touches of frosting. As she switched to another tray, her wrist suddenly gave out, and the piping bag slipped from her fingers, smearing frosting all over the counter.

Frustrated, she let out an annoyed sigh and gripped the edge of the counter.

“Ugh! So stupid,” she muttered. She should have known this would happen. It always did. Three years after her accident, and she still kept pushing herself too far. She was stubborn to a fault.

Shaking her head, she cleaned up the mess and moved on to simpler tasks, finishing earlier than she had planned. Her body felt unusually drained, another reminder that—even though she wasn’t showing yet—the pregnancy was already changing her. Normally, she could bake for hours without feeling this exhausted.

Sheila May was reading a romance novel behind the counter when Kira left the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She frowned when she noticed Kira’s tired posture.

“Have you been pushing yourself too hard again?” she asked, looking at Kira over the top of her glasses.

“No more than usual,” Kira replied with a shrug, tossing the towel around her neck. She hadn’t changed out of her baking clothes—just pulled on a hoodie to keep warm. Her apartment was only a few minutes away, and she would be home and in the shower soon. That was one of the reasons she had chosen to live there, despite all its other issues.

As she stepped outside, she was relieved to see that the drizzle had stopped, even though the wind had picked up. She tucked her hands into her pockets and lowered her head against the cold breeze, focusing on getting home quickly.

She was so lost in thought that she didn’t see the tall figure standing at the entrance of her building until she was almost right in front of him.

Startled, she gasped and took a step back, her hand flying to her chest, ready to either scream or run—until she realized who it was.

Tesah Clover was standing there, looking down at her as if he barely recognized her.

“Miss Samia?”

God, why did he insist on calling her that?

“What do you want?” she asked, crossing her arms.

“I came to tell you that the paternity test results arrived today.”

“I know.”

“I want to assure you that you and the child will be taken care of.”

“Just the child,” she corrected him. His expression darkened.

“What?”

“You’ll only be providing for the baby. I don’t want anything from you.”

“But the medical bills alone—”

“I’ll handle it.”

“Do you have a job yet?” he asked, his sharp gaze sweeping over her. Kira suddenly became very aware of how messy she must look—flour on her hoodie, her hair likely in disarray—but she refused to let it bother her.

“Not yet.”

“The longer you stay unemployed, the harder it will be to f

ind work in your…” He gestured vaguely at her stomach. “Your situation.”