Behave

I slide the last box in the trunk of the taxi. I blow a sigh of relief. I stretch my back before I turn to my mom.
“Well, that’s it,” she smiles. “I’m going to miss you, dear. Oh, my little Livia’s all grown up and going on her own.”
I hug her tightly.
“Oh, you won’t miss me one bit. You’re probably going to have a blast once I’m gone,” I joke.
She laughs away her teary eye. She puts her hands on my cheeks, slightly squeezing my face.
“Promise me you’ll call all the time,” she pleads.
I smile wider, “Promise.”
We hug again. I just turned 18. I have to move out and make a life for myself. Though my mom’s all I have, I’m sure I can manage on my own. We’ll only be an hour and a half drive from each other. But I’m already missing her. She finally lets me go and I walk up to the taxi.
I gained a good job at a restaurant, which pays well, located in the heart of the city. It’s ideal to move there and live just blocks away from work than staying with my mom and having to drive more than an hour everyday. I don’t even have a car and public transportation doesn’t come this way on the outskirts of Somerville. Plus, mom didn’t have enough money to send me to University. So we both agreed, after lots of thought, that I’ll work a year or two and pay for my education. I plan to go to Tufts and major in Economics so I can have a good career working in banking. Living on the brinks of poverty, I was forced to keep my head on my shoulders. I wasn’t able to go out and do fun things like my friends. Mom had to make constant cuts and sacrifices just so I could live comfortably. I feel as though I owe her this much.
I wave one last time as the taxi driver starts pulling away.

The morning comes to Somerville. I bathe and brush my teeth. I pull my honey colored hair back and tie it. I get in my black uniform and I find my red apron, tying it over my waist. A routine I don’t mind doing everyday. I slip on my city shoes and grab my bag before heading through the door. I lock the door of my apartment behind me and do a double check. I walk ahead and stare at the old green carpeting lying in the hall. I easily walk into work. The restaurant name ‘The Independent’ loops above the door. My boss, Mathew, is stacking utensils. He sees me walk in and smiles, fixing his glasses over his nose.
“Ah! Livia, you’re here early today,” he chuckles as his belly jiggles in front of him. “But that’s always good. Do you mind finishing up setting the tables for me?”
“Sure,” I politely smile and rest my things in the back.

During my break one night, I walk into the staff room, where another waitress was staying. I dip my hand in my pocket and pull out my cell. I dial mom, knowing she’ll pick up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, mom, it’s just me,” I say.
“Livia! How are you doing? How’s work? I hope it’s not too hard,” she chastises.
“I’m fine. Work’s not that hard. It’s only fast pace. I’m starting to get used to it,” I assure.
“That’s good, then. How’s the apartment?”
“It’s cozy. The previous leaser left some furniture behind, so I don’t have to worry buying a kitchen table. The only thing is the bathroom faucet drips. But other than that, it’s better than I thought it would be.”
“But isn’t a one room too small?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s just me living in there. It’s easier to keep things clean anyway,” I say.
The other waitress sitting on the side blatantly stares my way. I casually turn away and keep talking on the phone.
“I hope you’re eating properly,” my mom worries.
“I am. Mom, stop worrying. It’s only been a week.”
“You can’t stop me from worrying, that’s what mothers do,” she says.
I laugh a bit and notice the waitress is eyeing me.
“Um, well, my breaks over. I’ll call you later,” I tell her.
“Alright, have a good night, sweetie.”
“Bye, love you,” I lower my voice.
“Love you too,” she says.
I hang up and stuff my phone back in my pocket. The waitress wastes no time clearing her throat. I look over to her and give her small smile, about to walk back inside the restaurant and busy myself serving people.
“You don’t live with your mum?”
I knew it. She was eavesdropping. I sigh and answer her.
“Yeah,” I say.
“It’s been years I haven’t seen my mom,” she thinks oddly.
I notice she has an English accent.
“Why’s that?” I ask.
She looks me in the eye, “She’s dead.”
Her sudden response caught me off guard. I didn’t expect that. I probably gave her a shocked look, because she begins to laugh a bit.
“I-I’m sorry to hear that. It must be hard…” I say, feeling sad for her.
She looks around my age, but has more shapes and curves than me.
“Don’t be. I’m not.”
“Why? Did you have a bad relationship with her?”
She shrugs, “Actually, we had a great relationship. Kind of like yours—calling mummy during breaks and stuff. That’s how it starts. But then you find out the truth… and nothing really matters afterwards.”
She gets up from her seat, leaving me hanging on her words, and goes into the busy restaurant. I don’t understand what she said. But I brush it away from my thoughts and focus on going back to work.