"Your cooking is terrible, you're broke and ugly, and all you ever do is embarrass me. You're nothing compared to—"
He stopped himself.
For five years, I had raised that boy as my own.
I didn't know when it started, but somewhere along the way, Felix had come to despise me. I'd always assumed he was grieving his late mother. But in that moment, something in his unfinished sentence caught my attention.
"Compared to who?"
He refused to answer. He just spat, "None of your damn business," and slammed his bedroom door shut.
I was going to be late. I reminded him through the door to lock up and go to bed early, then hurried out.
By the time I finished scrubbing the vomit from the last private room, daylight was flooding in through the windows.
My back ached so badly I could barely stand straight. I was about to collect my pay and clock out.
The club manager slammed his palm on the desk and barked at me.
"I just did an inspection. Your cleaning last night was completely unacceptable. And you have the nerve to ask for money?"
"Go back and redo every single room. Otherwise, you're not getting a cent."