Chapter 12 - The First Shift
Monday morning arrived with the harsh, cold reality of a factory whistle. At 5:30 AM, the kitchen light in the Craftsman house flicked on.
Victoria stood by the counter packing two metal lunchboxes: turkey sandwiches on whole wheat, crisp apples, and thermoses of black coffee. Beside her, Clara stood buttoning a heavy denim work shirt. Her hands, which had spent years holding delicate sable-hair watercolor brushes, were stiff and dry from handling moving boxes all weekend.
"You don't have to pack my lunch, Vic," Clara muttered, staring at the floorboards. "I can buy something from the vending machines."
"The vending machines charge four dollars for a bag of stale chips," Victoria said, closing the lunchbox and sliding it across the counter. "That's twenty minutes of your post-tax labor. Keep the four dollars in your pocket."
Clara took the lunchbox, her fingers gripping the metal handle. "I'm terrified."
Victoria stopped what she was doing. She looked at her younger sister—really looked at her—seeing past the layers of resentment and frustration that had built up between them since childhood. Behind the spoiled artist was simply a frightened girl who had never been allowed to develop her own strength because their mother had convinced her she was made of spun glass.
"The first two hours will be miserable," Victoria told her honestly. "Your back will hurt from standing on the concrete floor. The warehouse manager will yell at you if your barcode scanner lags, and you'll want to walk out to your car and cry."
"What do I do when that happens?" Clara asked, her voice cracking.
"You look at the clock, you remember Grandpa’s oxygen prescription, and you scan the next pallet," Victoria said gently. "And at 2:30 PM, when the shift buzzer rings, you walk out to the parking lot knowing that every single penny in your pocket belongs to you. Nobody gave it to you out of pity. Nobody stole it from an old man to make you feel good. It’s yours. That feeling is better than any praise Mom ever gave you."
Clara took a shaky breath, swallowed hard, and nodded. She pulled her work gloves out of her coat pocket and tucked them into her belt.
"Pick me up at 2:45?" Clara asked.
"I'll be waiting by the guard gate," Victoria promised.
As the front door clicked shut behind Clara, Victoria heard the soft shuffle of slippers in the hallway. Arthur stood in the doorway of his ground-floor bedroom, watching through the front window as Clara walked down the driveway in the cold morning twilight.
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"She’s walking tall today," Arthur whispered, a faint smile touching the corners of his weathered mouth.
"She is, Grandpa," Victoria said. "She finally has the ground under her feet."
