The House of Hope #2 - short story for those who need to heal

living a life of hope

I sat in the bar, a notebook in front of me as I scribbled down poetry and short stories that I had created over the years. It had been seven years since my visit to the House of Hope. Right after that, I quit my job at the convenience store and decided to start a new life.

I moved to the city, began waitressing and writing simultaneously. In a few months, they promoted me to cashier. A year after that, I started managing the restaurant. Every time life hit me with a brick, I held onto the hope that it would get better.

And it did. Every single time.

Today, the restaurant had a tough day. It was under fire from food critics and faced a barrage of negative social media posts. I ended up crying in the bathroom. After work was over, I pinned my beansprout clip to my hair and found myself at the bar, with a glass of whiskey beside me, furiously scribbling.

"Tough day?" the bartender asked, refilling my drink. I asked him how he knew; he pointed at my beansprout clip and told me he noticed I always had it on whenever I was writing. "You alright?"

"I will be," I answered, giving him a smile as a man a few seats away from me was talking loudly.

"You don't understand," he was saying. "I... Sorry, are you saying I shouldn't even come to work tomorrow anymore? What—Fine. Hang up on me, why don't you?"

He was frustrated, and the bartender made a face at me as if to say, 'There you go. Another person having a bad day!'

"I think you should ask him if he's alright instead," I told the bartender.

"Your order, sir?"

"Your strongest," the man beside me replied.

I stole a glance at him and froze. He looked familiar – a bit too familiar. I narrowed my eyes, studying his features and immediately recognizing where I'd seen him. I'd often thought about my husband that I had seen in the future. Throughout the years, I wondered if I hadn't played my cards right, reminding myself of what Courage said. But now, he was right in front of me, and I said a little prayer of gratitude.

"Nice clip," he said, and I jumped, noticing how he was staring at me. I instinctively touched my hair. "Very, uh, antenna-like."

I blushed a deep shade of red, and the man chuckled. That night, we ended up talking for more than four hours. He had lost his job, one that he had fought so hard to get, to his arch-nemesis who had stolen it from him.

"I've never heard someone use the term 'arch-nemesis'," I said.

He was expressive, talking with big hand gestures, very different from me. His questions were blunt. What do you like about this place? What's your favorite food from when you were younger? What was the hardest thing you've ever been through?

"I," he began, looking embarrassed. "want to ask you one last question."

"What?" I asked with a slightly slurred speech from the alcohol.

"Daughter or son?"

"Daughter," I answered instantaneously.

"What would you name her? I would name her Daisy."

"Daisy? Why 'Daisy'?"

"That was my mother's name. Or Lavender," he snapped his fingers. "Lavender flowers represent grace and calmness. It's also associated with the crown chakra, which is linked to higher purpose and spiritual connectivity. I learned that today in my florist class."

"You go to florist classes?" I asked in surprise. He nodded.

"So, what would be your choice?" he asked, steering the conversation back to the question of what I would name my daughter.

I thought about it, humming to myself until the perfect name came to mind.

"Hope."

He repeated the word after me, rolling it on his tongue as if testing it out before breaking into a smile.

"I like that," he said, nodding with approval. "Hope."

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