Visitors 38
The First Monday
January 5, 2026 – Back to work, back to reality, back to building the future
Monday morning arrives with the particular weight that first real workdays after holidays always carry. The vacation bubble has popped. Life resumes its regular velocity. Bills need paying, contracts need pursuing, families need feeding.
Johnathan wakes early—his internal clock refusing to acknowledge that technically they could sleep in, that there's no boss demanding punctuality, no commute requiring pre-dawn departure. But entrepreneurship doesn't respect sleep schedules. Neither does anxiety about money.
Johnathan's secret thought: First Monday of the year. Fresh start, clean slate, all those motivational clichés people post on social media. But underneath the optimism is math—cold, unforgiving math. Mortgage, utilities, groceries for four people instead of one, Angel's therapy, legal fees for the adoption. The numbers don't care about fresh starts. They just keep accumulating.
He finds Liora already in the kitchen, coffee brewing, her laptop open on the counter. She's wearing her "business casual" outfit—nice jeans, a fitted sweater, hair pulled back in a way that suggests she means business today.
Morning. I've been thinking about the office situation. We need to solve this before we both go insane.
I know. I can't work with constant conversation happening six feet away. My brain doesn't function like that. But I also don't want to exile you from your own house.
What if I move my office next door? To Mildred's house?
Johnathan pauses mid-coffee-pour, turning to look at her with surprise.
Hear me out. Mildred and I are essentially creating a joint agency—my graphic design and branding combined with her interior decorating. We're already collaborating constantly. It makes sense for us to share physical space. She has that spare room in her house, the one she was planning to use as an office anyway. We could set up there together. You get your quiet space back. We get a proper collaborative workspace. Win-win.
Johnathan's secret thought: She's moving out. Not leaving—I know that—but moving her work life next door. Which is practical and makes total sense and solves our space problem. So why does it feel like rejection? Like I'm chasing her away with my need for silence? This is the right solution and it feels terrible. What does that say about me?
I think you're chasing me away. Like I'm so difficult to work near that you're literally leaving the building.
His voice cracks slightly on the words. Liora sets down her coffee cup and moves to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.
John. It's not so bad. It's just like most families where one or both people have to go someplace to work away from home. You're not chasing me away. We're adapting to reality. You need quiet. I need collaboration. This way we both get what we need without making each other miserable.
I know. It's just... even if you aren't here for ten minutes I start missing you. Like, seriously missing you. Physical ache in my chest missing you. How am I going to function with you next door all day?
Liora laughs—the sound warm and affectionate despite the seriousness of the conversation.
Just wait till we've been married for a few months. You'll crave some time away from me. Trust me on that. This is my second marriage, and it's your first. The honeymoon phase doesn't last forever. Eventually you'll be grateful I'm next door instead of underfoot asking what you're working on every twenty minutes.
Liora's secret thought: He misses me already and I'm standing right here. That's sweet and suffocating at the same time. I love that he loves me this much, but I also need him to be okay without constant proximity. We can't be one of those codependent couples who can't function independently. That way lies disaster.
Before they can continue the conversation, footsteps thunder down the stairs. Angel appears, Jennifer close behind her, both girls looking remarkably alert for 7:30 a.m. They head straight for the kitchen, clearly on a mission.
Morning! We're starving. Is there breakfast or do we have to make it ourselves?
Liora hands Angel a pan, a spatula, and a box of pancake mix with exaggerated formality.
Have at it, girl. Breakfast doesn't happen by magic. Sometimes you have to make it yourself.
Angel isn't upset in the slightest. She grins, taking the supplies and setting to work with Jennifer's assistance. The two of them move around the kitchen with surprising coordination, mixing batter, heating the griddle, discussing optimal pancake thickness like it's a critical engineering problem.
Angel's secret thought: I love this. Cooking breakfast with my best friend while my parents drink coffee and watch us with that fond parental expression. This is so beautifully normal. This is what families do on Monday mornings. I'm part of a family that does normal Monday morning things. I'll never take this for granted.
As pancakes sizzle on the griddle, Liora leans against the counter, addressing Johnathan casually.
By the way, I talked to Linda. Your Lonely Girl—Taylor—she's doing well. Her grandfather got her into detox and she's planning to stay in rehab for a few months. Just think, just buying her that winter coat might have been the spark that changed her life for the better.
Angel's spatula freezes mid-flip. She turns slowly to look at Johnathan, her expression shifting from casual to intensely focused.
Taylor who? You bought some girl a winter coat? When did you do that?
There's something in her voice—not quite accusatory, but definitely demanding explanation. Johnathan sets down his coffee mug carefully.
The other day when I went to get bagels, I ran into a young girl freezing because she didn't have any winter clothes. So I got her some food and some warm clothes. That's all.
The color drains from Angel's face. Her eyes go wide, her breathing shallow. Jennifer notices immediately, touching Angel's arm with concern.
Taylor? From down by the bagel shop? By the tent camps? That Taylor? Oh my God I can't believe you. Why were you talking to her? I don't want you talking to her. She's not a good person. What else did you give her?
The words come rapid-fire, tinged with something close to panic. Liora straightens, immediately alert to the shift in emotional temperature.
Oh my. Somebody's getting all protective.
Don't worry, sweetheart. I know what you're thinking. She's a street worker, if you know what I mean, and she did make me an offer. But I turned her down. I would never risk the love I have for Liora, and especially I would never risk the love I have for you to get involved with someone like Taylor.
He speaks gently, deliberately, making eye contact with Angel to ensure she understands the gravity and sincerity of his words.
Anyway, somehow she got my phone number—I don't remember giving it to her, but she called me and asked for help to get out of that life. I guess she got in a big fight with her mom over the winter jacket I bought her. Her mom wanted to sell it. I asked Linda to go get her, and her grandfather got her into detox and then rehab. Her grandfather was in tears that she called. He's been waiting and praying for this for years. I guess he loves her like I love you. I hope she does well. She sounded like she was ready.
He pauses, watching Angel's reaction carefully before adding the final piece.
She did mention that she thought she might know you. And I guess she does.
Angel shakes her head, still visibly vibrating with indignation and something darker—fear, maybe, or the resurfacing of memories she's worked hard to suppress.
Well, good for her. I hope she does well. We were BFFs for a little while, but when she and her mom started working the streets—like every day—I couldn't be around her anymore. When she gets out of rehab, you better not try to adopt her. Then she would be Taylor Taylor and that would be dumb.
She delivers the last line with forced levity, trying to lighten the mood. But her hands still shake slightly as she returns to the pancakes.
Find another bagel shop! Stay away from that part of town! It's dangerous and you're too innocent. You'll get hurt. And that part of town brings me bad memories, so for me, just stay away. Okay?
Angel's secret thought: Taylor. God, I haven't thought about Taylor in months. We were friends. Real friends, before everything went completely to hell. Before her mom dragged her deeper into the street life, before I watched her disappear into something I couldn't follow her into. I couldn't save her. I couldn't even save myself. And now Dad tried to help her and I should be grateful but all I feel is threatened. Like my past is reaching into my present and contaminating everything clean I've built.
Yes, ma'am. I will find another bagel shop. I will honor your wish to forget that part of town.
Angel crosses the kitchen and gives Johnathan a fierce hug—the kind that communicates both gratitude and desperation, love and fear tangled together. He holds her for a long moment, feeling the trembling tension in her shoulders.
When she pulls away, she returns to the mixing bowl, focusing intently on pancakes like they're the most important thing in the world. Jennifer watches her with a confused expression—pieces of a puzzle clicking into place, revealing a picture she hadn't anticipated.
Jennifer's secret thought: Angel knows street workers? She knows tent camps? She knows this Taylor person who apparently solicits men? How does Angel know these things? What kind of life did she live before this house? She's told me stories about school and friends and normal teenage stuff, but those were all lies, weren't they? Who is my best friend really? And why do I suddenly feel like I don't know her at all?
Breakfast proceeds in uncomfortable silence. The pancakes are perfect—golden and fluffy—but the atmosphere is strained. Jennifer eats quietly, stealing glances at Angel, clearly processing revelations she's not ready to articulate.
When they finish, Angel and Jennifer retreat upstairs to Angel's room. They're both being homeschooled—Angel through an online program Liora enrolled her in, Jennifer through Mildred's long-established curriculum. Theoretically they should be studying. The closed door suggests other conversations are happening.
Liora waits until she hears Angel's door close before turning to Johnathan with a worried expression.
I was wondering when that was going to happen. Did you see the way Jennifer was looking at Angel? Mildred has homeschooled Jennifer since kindergarten—she doesn't trust the school system, thinks it's toxic and dumbed-down. So Jennifer hasn't had much socialization with kids her own age. Angel is like the first real friend her age that she's bonded with.
I don't think Angel told her anything about her real past. She probably made up some sanitized version—normal middle school, normal high school, boyfriends and cheerleading and all that typical teenage stuff. And she accidentally just revealed a bunch of the truth getting upset about Taylor. Jennifer is very innocent. I hope this doesn't damage their relationship. Jennifer is very important for Angel's healing.
Liora's secret thought: Angel needs Jennifer. Needs that friendship, that normalcy, that connection to someone her own age who isn't defined by trauma. If this revelation pushes Jennifer away, if Jennifer can't handle the truth about Angel's past, it could set Angel's healing back months. Please let Jennifer be stronger than her innocence suggests. Please let their friendship survive this.
Yeah. I picked up on that. I didn't realize how sensitive Angel is about her past. It's like she's completely compartmentalized it. She even said once that it feels like a dream now, like it never really happened. I guess that's how she's protecting herself from those memories. I'll be more careful about bringing up street stuff in the future.
He pauses, a rueful expression crossing his face.
But damn, now I have to find another bagel shop. And that one was the best one in the city.
Small price to pay for Angel's peace of mind. Besides, maybe it's good that you avoid that area. Not because it's dangerous—though it is—but because you have this savior complex that makes you want to rescue every lonely girl you encounter. We can save Angel. We can celebrate that Taylor got help. But we can't save everyone, Johnathan. We don't have the resources or the capacity.
Her tone is gentle but firm—the voice of someone who's learned hard lessons about the limits of compassion.
I worry about when those memories that Angel is suppressing resurface. I had a girlfriend when I was a teenager who lived in a very dysfunctional home. Fighting almost every day, things being thrown, just constant chaos. She would chat with me on the phone and I could hear it all happening in the background and she didn't acknowledge any of it. Just kept talking like everything was normal.
When she was in her early twenties—just a few years ago—she started having a drinking problem. Those memories, that abuse, was starting to resurface and demand to be dealt with, and she pushed it all aside with alcohol. She got help, though. She's fine now. But it took years of therapy to process everything she'd buried.
Sooner or later, Angel is going to have to deal with her history. All of it. The survival sex work, the drugs, the trauma, everything she's compartmentalized. And we need to be ready to help her through that when it happens. It won't be pretty. It won't be easy. But it's necessary for real healing.
Liora's secret thought: I'm scared of that day. The day when Angel's walls come down and everything she's suppressed floods back. Will we be strong enough? Will our family be stable enough? Will I know what to do? I'm her mother now, but that doesn't mean I have all the answers. God, please give me wisdom when that time comes.
I'll always be ready to help Angel through whatever she needs. I've adopted her for life. Forever and for real. Whatever comes, we face it together.
The conversation shifts to practical matters. Liora asks about the city contract—whether Johnathan has heard anything back about his bid.
Yeah, actually. I thought it might be months, but they got right back to me. They want to fast-track it, and so far I have the best bid. They appreciated the fact that I suggested they get an AI-capable server soon—before the price skyrockets even more than it already has.
They need an in-house server since we'll be dealing with sensitive citizen data. In the last year, the big AI data centers have bought up all the silicon wafers used to make memory chips. A memory chip set that used to cost three hundred dollars now costs closer to three thousand—sometimes more than the computer box it goes in. My online guru, Julia McCoy, clued me in on that.
Liora laughs, the tension from earlier conversations easing slightly.
Well, I guess us McCoys are good for something. What are you proposing to build for them?
I quoted them an AI server they can keep in-house due to the sensitive data requirements. It'll use an AMD Threadripper processor, NVIDIA GPUs, and 128 gigabytes of DDR5 RAM. I'm excited to get the components and build it. I can keep the price under fifty-two hundred dollars. The RAM alone is six hundred and fifty, but that could be ten times that if we wait too long.
His voice picks up enthusiasm as he talks—the particular energy of someone discussing technology they're passionate about. Liora smiles affectionately.
Really? That's exciting. All I heard, though, was "blah blah blah ten times." But I trust you know what you're doing. Listen, I'm going to Mildred's now to get some work done in our new collaborative space. Angel promised to babysit Mia when she wakes up, so remind her of that when the little monster emerges.
She kisses him on the cheek, grabs her laptop bag, and heads next door. Johnathan watches her go, feeling the strange mix of relief and loneliness that her absence creates.
Johnathan's secret thought: She's next door. Literally thirty feet away. And I already miss her. But also—the house is quiet. Blissfully, perfectly quiet. I can think. I can code. I can hold complex logic structures in my head without interruption. This is going to work. It has to work.
For the first time in days, Johnathan buries himself in his office—the room that's his again, at least during work hours. He connects to his server, pulls up his development environment, and loses himself in Python code and AI agent architecture.
Hours pass. He's vaguely aware of Mia waking up, of Angel taking her downstairs for breakfast, of the house continuing its daily rhythms around him. But he's deep in the code, building scaffolding for the fraud prevention system, designing ethical constraints into the core architecture.
Johnathan's secret thought: If I'm going to build surveillance infrastructure—and that's what this is, no matter how we sanitize the language—then I'm going to build it right. With limits. With transparency. With the ability to refuse queries that violate basic privacy principles. I can't prevent all abuse, but I can make abuse harder. That has to count for something.
Around late afternoon, Johnathan emerges from his coding trance to start dinner. He's making spaghetti with meat sauce—simple, reliable, crowd-pleasing. The kind of meal that requires attention but not creativity.
As he's browning ground beef, Angel approaches tentatively. Her expression is serious—the look she gets when she's about to ask for something significant.
Of course. Any time, sweetheart. What's on your mind?
Angel's eyes fill with tears. She sits at the kitchen table, her hands twisting together nervously.
Jennifer left. She made up some excuse and went back to her house. She's mad at me. I lied to her. I made up a story about my past—middle school, high school, boyfriends and stuff, being a cheerleader. Normal teenage girl things. But today she found out it was all fake. That I was all fake. I don't know what to do. How do I fix this? I need her.
Her voice breaks on the last words. Johnathan immediately abandons the stove, moving to sit beside her, pulling her into a hug.
That's a tough one, sweetheart. Deception never works in the long run—you always get found out. I understand why you did it, though. Jennifer is very innocent. She's almost sixteen but she's more like a twelve-year-old in a lot of ways, because she's lived such a sheltered life. So she has no frame of reference to understand what you've lived through.
And I understand that you wanted to leave all that in the past and not bring it into a new relationship. For her to find out that her first real best friend was lying—I'm sure that was a big shock. I bet, though, that she'll be back. I can tell how much she loves you. Give her time. But learn the lesson from this: lying to someone you love, someone who loves you, is always a mistake.
Angel's secret thought: He's right. I knew lying was wrong but I did it anyway because the truth is so ugly. How do you tell someone innocent like Jennifer that you've done things—horrible things—just to survive? That you've sold yourself and gotten high and lived in trap houses? She wouldn't understand. She'd be disgusted. Maybe she still will be. Maybe I've lost her forever.
Johnathan returns to cooking, giving Angel space to process. She sits at the table in silence, occasionally wiping away tears, clearly wrestling with shame and fear and regret.
Liora returns from Mildred's as dinner is nearly ready. She senses the emotional atmosphere immediately—the kind of heaviness that indicates something significant happened. But before she can ask, Mia comes thundering into the kitchen demanding pasta and attention in equal measure.
They sit for dinner—just the four of them, since Jennifer is conspicuously absent. No one is talking much. Mia chatters away, oblivious to the tension, but the adults and Angel eat in subdued quiet.
The sadness is palpable. Angel pushes food around her plate more than eating it. Liora and Johnathan exchange concerned glances. Even Mia eventually picks up on the mood, her cheerful monologue trailing off into confused silence.
And then, suddenly—the sound of the front door opening.
Jennifer walks in without knocking, like she belongs there. Like she never left. She pulls up a chair and sits next to Angel at the table, her expression determined but gentle.
Liora, without missing a beat, hands her a plate and fills it with spaghetti. No questions asked. No awkward explanations required. Just silent acceptance.
The sadness evaporates instantly. Everything shifts back into place—the equilibrium restored, the family complete again.
Angel's secret thought: She came back. She knows the truth now—at least part of it—and she came back anyway. Maybe I don't have to be perfect. Maybe I don't have to have a sanitized past. Maybe people can love me knowing the worst things about me. Maybe that's what real friendship looks like.
Jennifer's secret thought: I was scared. Scared of who Angel really is, scared of what her past means, scared of being friends with someone so different from me. But then I thought about losing her—about not having her in my life—and that was scarier than any truth about her past. She's still Angel. She's still my best friend. The rest is just... history. We all have history.
Dinner continues with renewed energy. Conversation flows more naturally now—Mia's stories, Jennifer's observations about unpacking boxes, Angel's careful jokes testing whether humor is welcome. The family rhythm reestablishes itself.
After dinner, as the girls head upstairs and Mia settles in front of the TV, Liora and Johnathan clean the kitchen together. They work in comfortable silence—the kind that comes from genuine partnership.
Jennifer came back. That's huge. That means their friendship is real—real enough to survive truth.
Angel needs that. Needs to know she's not defined by her worst moments. That people can love her despite knowing the truth.
We all need that. God knows I've made enough mistakes in my life. If people only loved the sanitized versions of us, none of us would have anyone.
Liora's secret thought: My first marriage. My struggles with poverty. The times I wasn't a perfect mother to Mia. All the ways I've failed and stumbled and made terrible choices. Johnathan knows most of it and loves me anyway. That's grace. That's what real love looks like. And Angel is learning that too—that love doesn't require perfection.
The evening settles into gentle domesticity. Upstairs, music plays from Angel's room—softer than usual, like the girls are having serious conversations rather than just goofing around. Mia falls asleep on the couch mid-cartoon. The house breathes with the rhythm of family life.
Johnathan and Liora retreat to their bedroom around ten, exhausted from the emotional weight of the day. Monday has delivered exactly what first workdays after holidays always do—reality checks, necessary adjustments, reminders that life continues with all its complications.
First real Monday of the year. We survived.
Angel's friendship survived. The city contract is moving forward. You and Mildred have your collaborative space. Taylor is in rehab. All in all, not a bad day.
Not a bad day at all. Here's to surviving Mondays. Here's to relationships that survive truth. Here's to building this life one complicated day at a time.
They fall asleep tangled together—grateful for survival, hopeful about tomorrow, trusting that whatever complications Tuesday brings, they'll face them together.
In Angel's room, two teenage girls talk late into the night. Not about boys or school or typical teenage concerns. About harder things—truth and shame and forgiveness and what it means to really know someone. Building friendship on bedrock instead of sand.
And somewhere across town, in a rehabilitation facility, Taylor sleeps—maybe for the first time in years without fear, without desperation, without the constant calculation of survival. Dreaming, perhaps, of futures that might actually be possible.
The Angels continue their work. Arranging circumstances. Guiding hearts. Orchestrating rescue through human hands willing to show up when called.
Monday is done. Tuesday waits. The work of building family, of pursuing integrity, of learning to love imperfectly but genuinely—that work continues.
Forever and for real.
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