-Layla Saidi:
I woke up this morning with a strange feeling buzzing in my chest—something warm, something light. Something I hadn't felt in a long time: excitement. Not the kind that races through your veins and makes you want to scream, but the quiet kind. The kind that makes you breathe deeper, softer. Like you don't want to scare it away.
There were two reasons for it.
First—today was Amira's first day at daycare.
Second—I had a meeting. A real meeting. For a real job. One that wasn't behind a mop and a toilet brush.
I turned my head slowly to look at her. She was still curled up beside me in our cramped studio bed, her lashes fanned over her cheeks, her mouth slightly open in a quiet snore. She looked peaceful. Warm. Loved.
I ran my fingers gently over her hair and kissed her forehead. "Good morning, baby," I whispered.
She stirred a little. Her eyes fluttered open. "Mama?"
"Yeah, it's me. It's your big day, remember?" I grinned and gave her nose a soft boop with my finger.
She blinked and suddenly gasped, sitting up straight. "Daycare?!"
I laughed, heart full. "Daycare."
We had a little routine, even if it was one I'd stitched together with limited time and even more limited space. I let her use the bathroom first, then helped her into her little panties with the cats on them and her pink socks with the frilly edges. I warmed some milk for her while she brushed her teeth and set two plates on the counter that doubled as our dining table.
Breakfast was simple: two pancakes I'd made last night and kept wrapped, some berries from the little bowl I kept in the fridge for her, and a spoonful of honey. I even gave her the pink plastic fork she liked because it made her feel fancy.
"Do I look like a big girl?" she asked while chewing on her pancake.
"The biggest," I smiled, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.
I made sure her lunchbox was packed—small sandwiches shaped like stars, a little box of raisins, sliced cucumbers, and one of the few juice boxes I saved for occasions like this. I clipped her water bottle to her tiny backpack and slid the lunchbox inside. Everything looked too big on her. The bag, the bottle. Even the shoes. But she looked proud.
When it came time to dress her, I picked the yellow skirt she loved, the one with the sunflowers, and paired it with a soft white cardigan. Her hair was extra curly this morning, so I took my time parting it and adding the little purple butterfly clips she liked, even though they kept slipping out. She kept wriggling. I had to pause twice because she kept trying to check herself in the mirror.
"You look perfect," I said, after I added a touch of coconut oil to her edges.
"Perfect like you?" she asked, blinking up at me.
God. I almost cried right there. "Even more perfect."
I lifted her in my arms—her backpack on one shoulder, mine on the other—and we started the long walk to the daycare. She sang most of the way. Little songs I didn't know, and a few she made up. I tried to memorize all of them.
When we reached the daycare, a small beige building with flower pots out front, my arms trembled a little from carrying her the whole way. But I didn't want to let her go. Not yet.
The woman at the door greeted me with a kind smile. "You must be Amira."
Amira held onto me tighter. Her little arms were wrapped around my neck.
"She's just a little shy," I said quickly, then knelt down to look her in the eyes. "Mama's just going to do something really important, okay? Something that could change everything. You be good for me, yeah?"
She nodded slowly, her eyes glassy. I felt my own vision blur.
I kissed her forehead once, twice, three times. I squeezed her hands and then stood up.
Walking away was the hardest part.
I wanted to run back. I did run back. I peeked through the window and saw her sitting with the other kids, hugging her stuffed bunny close to her chest. She looked okay. Braver than me.
I jogged the rest of the way back home—sweaty, flustered, my heart pounding. I had to move fast.
I took the quickest shower of my life, scrubbing the sweat off as best I could with the one bar of soap we had. I wrapped a towel around my hair and started rifling through the tiny wardrobe we kept near the mattress.
Slacks. My only pair that wasn't threadbare.
White shirt. It had a faint yellowish stain on the side—Amira's juice maybe? I cursed under my breath and rushed to the sink, scrubbing it with dish soap.
"Come on, come on, please dry," I muttered as I flapped the shirt furiously through the air, checking every few seconds with my fingers. Still damp.
I didn't have a lot of bras—most of them were old or didn't fit right anymore—but I took out the one good one, the sturdiest one I saved for job interviews or court appointments. The wire poked a little, but it held my chest better than anything else I had.
Once the shirt was mostly dry, I slipped it on, buttoned it carefully, and tucked it into my slacks. I tied my hair back into a tight ponytail, still damp but not dripping. A cheap necklace I found at the secondhand market added something to the outfit—it didn't look expensive, but it didn't look fake either.
I looked down at my shoes. Dusty. I took a cloth and wiped them clean until the shine peeked through again.
My nails were short but clean. I checked under them, just in case. My face was bare, pale. I sighed, opening the little tin where I kept the only makeup I owned. A red lipstick—expired, probably years ago—but it still worked. I dabbed a bit on my lips, not too much. The eyeliner I found at work rolled under my hand. I blinked as I tried to apply it in the cracked mirror.
It wasn't perfect. But it would have to do.
I checked the business card. Still there. Tucked in my pocket like a lifeline.
I didn't want to walk to this one. Not this time. I couldn't show up sweaty or late. I waited at the bus stop, pacing. The bus was late. Every minute felt like it stretched forever.
But I kept whispering to myself.
"You can do this. You can do this for her."
I thought of Amira. I thought of the way she looked at me this morning. Like I could do anything. Like I was everything.
I gripped the business card tighter in my hand. I didn't know what waited for me at the end of this ride.
But I knew I had to go.
——
Got it! Here's a much slower-paced, detailed rewrite with richer dialogue and context, keeping everything natural and paced out. Dean Hart—not Gart—and Dean doesn't actually talk to Jenna directly, just answers when she calls.
⸻
I stood in front of the huge building, clutching the business card tightly between my fingers. The Hart building. It towered over me like a giant glass castle, reflecting the morning sun in sharp angles. Everything about it screamed wealth—the polished marble floors inside, the shiny cars parked outside, the well-dressed people who seemed to glide effortlessly through the entrance.
I looked down at myself. My slacks were neat but worn. My white shirt, even after I'd scrubbed the stubborn stain, was still a little wrinkled, and my shoes—well, I'd wiped them clean, but they'd never fool anyone into thinking they were expensive. I felt like I was standing outside a world that wasn't meant for me.
My heartbeat quickened. I swallowed the lump in my throat. For a moment, I thought about turning around and walking away. This place… it wasn't for someone like me. But then, I thought of Amira—my little girl, my whole reason for waking up every morning. This was for her.
I took a deep breath and stepped toward the security gate.
Two men in sharp suits stood tall, their eyes immediately flicking to me as I approached.
"Good morning," one said, voice calm but direct. "Can I help you?"
I felt the nerves tightening in my chest, but I forced myself to speak clearly. "Good morning. I'm here to see Camille Hart. Dean sent me."
The guard's gaze sharpened slightly. "Dean Hart? And who might you be?"
I pulled the business card from my pocket and held it out with both hands. "Layla. Layla Saidi."
He took the card and studied it slowly, reading every word as if trying to decide if it was real.
After a quiet moment, he looked up at me. "Please wait here."
He stepped aside and opened a door to a smaller room just off the lobby. I sat down on the cold bench, trying not to fidget.
A few minutes later, the guard returned and escorted me inside the building. The marble floor was so shiny I could see my reflection, and the smell of fresh coffee mixed with faint perfume filled the air.
We approached the receptionist's desk, where two women looked up, clearly busy but polite.
"Can I help you?" One of them asked with a friendly smile.
"I'm here to see Camille Hart," I said, my voice still a little shaky. "Dean Hart sent me."
The receptionist glanced at the card the guard was holding. "Let me check."
She picked up the phone and dialed a number. I waited silently, heart thudding loudly in my ears.
"Hi, this is Jenna, Camille Hart's assistant," the woman spoke into the phone. "There's a woman here—Layla Saidi—who says you sent her to meet Camille. Did you?"
I watched her face carefully as she listened, biting her lip like she was thinking hard.
Then she said, "Okay. Thank you."
She ended the call and looked at me again.
"Dean confirmed. He sent you?"
"Yes," I replied, nodding.
"Alright. Camille is still in a meeting. You can wait in her office until she's done. I'll take you there."
I stood, trying to steady my breath, and followed Jenna down a long hallway lined with sleek black-and-white photographs of the Hart family over the years.
When we reached Camille's office, Jenna opened the glass door and gestured inside.
"You can sit here and wait. Camille will be out soon to see you."
I thanked her quietly and sat down, fingers nervously twisting in my lap.
My mind raced with a thousand thoughts. This was really happening. Maybe this could be the start of something better—for me and for Amira.