The Helper.
The doors of the bus hiss open, the early hours of evening drawing near. The flat sunlight peeks in, a rush of warm air following suit. The lady walks quickly into the bus, tapping her card against the electronic gantry before finding a seat and sitting down. Face, heavily powdered, long raven black hair hanging down her back. At first glance one may think that she’s just entering her early thirties, but the cracked and worn, albeit well-manicured feet of hers gives away the truth. How ironic it is to see her here and not with her own offspring somewhere else on this planet. To think that she could be speaking her native language, cooking scrumptious delights only appreciated by those of her culture and interacting with the throngs of ladies just like her with a shining smile on her face if this job had never been snapped up by her, a desperate lady looking for a job. Now all she could do was think of her family. The only link possible to her family, her precious mobile phone, had been lost in a scramble whilst trying to take care of Sir’s children. They wouldn’t understand if she saved the phone but endangered the lives of the children. They didn’t understand how little she had left. Her eyes flick downwards towards the child in the carrier in front of her. A fair-headed boy, chubby and with sincere blue eyes. Perhaps all he knew was her, perhaps he thought of her as his mother.
What a sad achievement that is, she thinks to herself as the bus lurches forward. All people around her notice is the cherubic face of the child, that innocent smile. No one welcomes one from a helper like her - all they see is the cheeky grin the boy gives every now and then.
And he probably doesn’t do it on purpose, she thinks in her native tongue. Unkempt eyebrows drawn together into a tight frown, all she can think of are the severed connections between her and her family back home. It wasn’t like she could anything about it, could she?
