“We don’t need you here.”
Angela blinked. “Ma?”
“You’re late,” the woman snapped. “Very late.”
Angela tried to explain. “Ma, I’m so sorry. There was—”
“That’s your business,” the woman cut in. “You should have left home earlier. And look at you. Slow. Sweating. Dirty girl. I don’t want someone like you in my house.”
Angela swallowed her tears like they were bitter medicine.
“Please, Ma,” she begged, “give me a chance.”
The woman stepped closer, narrowing her eyes.
“Chance for what? You even look like a husband snatcher. I don’t want you near my man. Get out. Don’t ever come here again.”
“Ma, please—”
The woman pushed the door wider, forcing Angela backward. Then she chased her outside, slamming the door so hard the sound felt personal.
Angela stood for a second at the edge of the compound, her envelope suddenly feeling like a joke.
Then she turned and began walking away, slow, her heart shaking.
She had walked under the sun for nothing.
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.
“My child,” he said, surprised, “you’re back so soon. How did the interview go?”
Angela tried to smile. But her voice cracked as if it couldn’t carry the weight.
“Papa… they chased me out,” she admitted. “The woman said I was dirty and late. She didn’t even let me explain.”
Papa James shook his head gently, not shocked, just sad in a way that looked older than his face.
“My child, don’t cry,” he said. “Some doors close because they are not your doors. You did good today. Your heart is clean.”
Angela stared down at her envelope. “I really needed that job.”
He touched her hand softly.
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