And she had given away the little money that could have made this rejection less humiliating.
She blinked hard, trying not to cry in front of someone’s expensive gate.
That was when a car drove into the compound.
A man stepped out—tall, neat, and carrying the tiredness of someone who had too many responsibilities and not enough softness in his life. He saw Angela walking out and paused.
“Who was that?” he asked, looking toward the woman at the door.
The woman reappeared, rolling her eyes dramatically.
“Honey, can you believe that poor thing came for the interview late?” she said. “How slow can she be? I chased her out. She even looked too dirty.”
The man frowned. “That’s not nice, Mabel.”
So. Her name was Mabel.
Mabel shrugged. “So what? I don’t like dirty girls around you.”
The man’s jaw tightened. “We need help in this house.”
Mabel waved him off as if the idea of work offended her. “I don’t want that kind of girl near my man.”
The man looked after Angela again, something thoughtful sitting behind his eyes.
But Angela didn’t wait to be called back.
Pride, even when poor, still existed.
She kept walking.
On the dusty road, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Her legs were tired. Her heart was even more tired.
When she turned a corner, she froze.
Papa James sat under the same small tree where she’d met him earlier, as if the morning had rewound itself.
He lifted his head quickly.
