Ginny waited tables—
beer, wings, neutral smile.
TVs flickered, sound low.
Patrons ogled her bust.
She pinned up her long dark hair.
On a smoke break,
she pulled a photo,
smiled—then cried,
brushed her finger across.
Layla had months,
maybe less.
After a pitcher,
a table tipped her big
for her cleavage.
Cigarette haze,
hip hop,
headache.
Ginny couldn’t afford
the cancer treatment—
too proud to beg,
too hard-headed
to give in,
swallow her pride.
She almost had enough—
three eviction notices
this year, but would sleep
on the street
for her daughter.
Ginny looked up—
hadn’t prayed in years,
but a miracle would help.
She went back inside.
Men wore warm smiles.
“I hope that tip helps,” a man said.
She found a check
covering the bills,
and then some.
She gasped.
Music softened,
lights brightened.
Her boss held fundraisers—
through town, online.
“Why?” she asked,
a tear creeping in.
“Because you’re a great mother,”
said a man with eyes for her.
She blushed.
People clapped.
Her suitor grabbed his coat—
offered to take her to Layla.
Her boss whispered,
“If you don’t go,
I’ll—”
She grinned, thanked everyone,
and went with the man to the hospital—
like her knight in shining armor
her mother promised would come.
Layla—pale, soft-spoken,
getting better.
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