Sleepless Years

The sun had long sunk behind the city's ragged skyline, bleeding amber and rose into a fading horizon, leaving behind the hush of twilight—but inside the modest third-floor apartment, there was no quiet. The living room, small and overstuffed with secondhand furniture and brightly colored plastic, throbbed with the chaotic rhythm of toddlerhood. Toys clattered like cymbals against hardwood floors. Laughter bounced off the walls with no clear source, a kind of gleeful anarchy. Cries overlapped and receded like ocean waves—one falling just as another swelled.

In the middle of it all, Ariella stood in the narrow hallway, half-leaning against the coat rack as she adjusted the fraying strap of her overused bag. Her work shoes—scuffed and pinching at the heel—felt like bricks on her feet, and a dull pressure throbbed at the back of her skull, the onset of yet another migraine. She hadn't worn perfume in weeks—just a dab of cocoa butter and the lingering scent of baby wipes—but exhaustion clung to her like silk, soft and inescapable.

She peeked into the boys' room, voice already tense. "Tori? Did Caden eat his rice?"

Tori appeared in the doorway a second later, her curly hair piled into a haphazard bun and a plastic spoon tucked behind her ear like a carpenter's tool. There was a smear of mashed peas on her shirt and a glint of humor in her tired eyes.

"Half of it," Tori replied, lifting her hands in mock surrender. "The other half's in his curls. That boy is chaos in toddler form—like a tornado in footie pajamas."

Ariella huffed a soft laugh, her hand resting briefly on her aching lower back. "Sounds about right."

"Don't worry, I'll handle it. Go. You're already late."

"I know, I just…" Ariella's voice trailed off. She stared down the hallway for a beat, where the soft glow of the kitchen light cast long shadows.

Tori stepped forward, gently brushing down Ariella's frizzed edges with the kind of care only a sister could manage. "They'll be okay. Sasha's on her way with juice boxes, gummies, and that look she gives when someone even thinks about skipping bedtime."

That drew a genuine smile from Ariella—small but grateful, edged with guilt. "You mean the 'I'll call your ancestors' look?"

"Exactly," Tori grinned. "Now go, before someone mistakes you for a chair again."

It was a standing joke now—how Ariella's boys were so clingy, she barely got to sit before one of them claimed her lap as a throne.

For three years, this was how life worked. A relay of sacrifice and survival. She clocked in overnight shifts at Mama June's 24-hour diner and scrubbed downtown offices on weekends. Sleep was a luxury, usually stolen in Sasha's guest room between shifts. There were days she forgot what it felt like to sleep through the night, to wake without a crying baby or the need to stretch every dollar past breaking point.

But none of it mattered when she saw their faces.

She stepped into the boys' bedroom—a cluttered chaos of toy bins, mismatched sheets, and wall decals that had long peeled at the corners. Caleb was standing on his toddler bed, proudly gesturing to a purple scribble he'd added to the wall with an uncapped marker.

"Look, Mommy! Dino-saur!"

Ariella squinted at the jagged mess. "Of course it is, baby. Looks just like one."

He beamed, clearly unbothered that his T-Rex had no legs and one massive eye.

On the floor, Caden was halfway inside a laundry basket, using a rolled-up sock as a makeshift puppet. "I'm Mr. Sock! And I say... roar!"

Cole sat cross-legged in front of him, clutching his stuffed elephant and giggling so hard he toppled backward.

"Be good for Auntie Tori and Auntie Sasha, okay?" Ariella said as she knelt down beside them. She smoothed Cole's soft curls, kissed Caleb's forehead, and adjusted Caden's twisted onesie.

"We be good!" Caleb shouted. "I'm Batman!"

"No, I'm Batman!" Caden yelled, springing up like a jack-in-the-box.

Cole, not to be left out, raised his tiny fist. "No, me Batman!"

She laughed, heart aching at the sight of them in their mismatched pajama capes—pillowcases, really, tied around their necks with uneven knots.

"Well then," she said, grabbing her coat, "save Gotham for me while I'm at work."

They saluted her with sticky fingers and plastic toy swords. As she backed into the hallway, her eyes lingered on them for a long moment. Her boys—loud, wild, impossibly tender-hearted. They were her reason for everything.

She turned toward the door, steeling herself. The minute she stepped outside, reality would hit hard. The cold wind. The long walk. The fluorescent hell of the diner. But in here, just for a moment, she could pretend she was the kind of mother who had it all together.

Tori handed her a takeaway cup of instant coffee, still steaming. "Black. Two sugars. You'll thank me at 3 a.m."

"You're a lifesaver."

"No, I'm just the backup quarterback," Tori said, nudging her toward the door. "Go run your play."

Ariella gave one last wave to the boys, who were now arguing over who got the 'real Batman cape,' and stepped out into the night, letting the door shut softly behind her.

Outside, the wind bit through her jacket immediately, and the streetlights buzzed overhead like tired ghosts. She pulled her coat tighter and started walking—heels clicking against cracked pavement, bag slung over her shoulder, and heart heavy with the quiet, crushing love of motherhood.

Each step forward was a decision—to keep going, to keep trying, to keep believing that maybe, just maybe, one day all of this would lead to something better.

Something more.

And tonight, that hope flickered like the streetlamps above—small, soft, but still burning.

The night air bit at her skin as Ariella stepped out into the city's blur of neon signs and honking horns. The streetlights flickered like tired sentinels over cracked sidewalks, casting long shadows that danced beneath her hurried feet. She wrapped her thin coat tighter around her frame, breath puffing out in visible clouds as she made her way toward the bus stop. Her limbs ached from another long shift at the 24-hour café, and her mind was still buzzing with customer orders and the clatter of dishes.

Just as the bus came into view—headlights cutting through the dark like a promise—she broke into a sprint, her bag slapping against her hip. She reached the curb with a breathless, "Wait!" and the driver, a gruff man with tired eyes, gave a small nod, holding the door open just long enough.

She climbed aboard and collapsed onto the nearest seat by the window. The fabric was torn at the edges, exposing foam, and it smelled faintly of damp and engine grease. But she didn't care. It was warmth. It was a pause.

She leaned her forehead against the icy glass, watching her breath fog it up as the city crawled past. Her reflection stared back—older than she remembered, tired in ways makeup couldn't cover. Hair hastily pulled into a bun. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion.

Three years.

Three years since the sterile white walls of that hospital room. Since the chaotic blur of beeping monitors, the prick of IVs, and the sharp pain that brought her three boys into the world too early.

Three years of NICU alarms and plastic incubators, of praying over tiny fingers and underdeveloped lungs. Three years of 2 a.m. feedings and hand-me-down cribs. Of clipping coupons and watching YouTube videos on sleep training while rocking three crying infants in turn.

Three years of not knowing.

She had searched, at first—desperate and frightened. After the birth, she had opened the hospital's envelope with trembling hands, the list of potential fathers based on her brief intake forms staring back like a riddle. Names she didn't remember. Men whose faces blurred into a fog of that hazy, hungover morning.

Some had denied ever meeting her. A few never answered their phones. One man cursed her out before she could even finish explaining. Another had laughed and told her he was sterile—"I got the snip five years ago, lady"—and hung up. Each rejection added another layer to her guilt and confusion, until it all became too heavy to carry.

The hospital had gently offered DNA testing, social workers, even counseling. She'd nodded and taken the paperwork, shoved it into the bottom of her diaper bag, and never looked at it again.

Some days she told herself it didn't matter. That the boys didn't need anyone but her. That biology wasn't the same as love.

Other days... she wondered.

What if he was out there? What if he was kind? Responsible? Would he care? Would he want them? Would he hurt them?

The unknown loomed like a locked door in her mind, one she wasn't brave enough to open.

She hugged her arms tightly around herself, the city lights blurring as they sped past. The bus rumbled on, bouncing slightly over potholes, and she closed her eyes for a moment—just a moment—letting herself drift.

They were hers. Caleb, Caden, and Cole. Her miracle boys.

She had chosen them. Chosen to keep them, to fight for them, even when she had nothing but love and fear to give.

That had to be enough.

And yet… that flicker of doubt always found a crack to slip through.

"Order up! Table six!"

The familiar clang of the bell above the kitchen window cut through the murmur of clinking cutlery and distant traffic beyond the frosted glass. Ariella snapped out of her trance, jolted by the sharp voice of Manny, the line cook, who didn't bother to hide his irritation tonight.

"Coming," she called back, forcing the weariness from her voice as she wiped her damp palms on the hem of her apron.

The diner was bathed in the flickering glow of yellow fluorescent lights, their hum constant and almost soothing after years of hearing them buzz above her. The checkered linoleum floors, worn smooth from decades of shuffling feet, creaked faintly beneath her as she crossed to the pass. She grabbed the tray—two stacks of pancakes, extra syrup, black coffee in a chipped white mug—and headed toward the booth near the window.

Table six.

A grizzled trucker sat there, gray flannel sleeves rolled up to his elbows, fingers pecking at a cracked phone screen. He didn't look up when she approached, but she smiled anyway.

"Here you go, sir. Pancakes, syrup, and your coffee."

He grunted. "Thanks, sweetheart."

It wasn't disrespectful. Just tired. Like everyone else in here.

She moved on.

The hours passed in a haze, measured not by minutes but by the rhythms of diner life: the scrape of forks on plates, the hiss of the espresso machine, the occasional burst of laughter from a booth in the corner. There were students cramming for exams over greasy fries, nurses in scrubs recounting their worst patient of the night, a young couple arguing in tense whispers over burnt toast, and an old man who always ordered soup and never finished it.

Ariella floated through it all, her body moving automatically—refilling coffee, scribbling orders, cleaning tables, counting tips that never stretched far enough. Her feet throbbed in her cheap sneakers, her lower back ached from hours of standing, but she never let it show. Not while she was on the floor. Not when every dollar counted.

By the time she finally punched out at 5:57 a.m., the sky outside had turned a faded lavender, the first strokes of dawn bleeding through the clouds like watercolor on paper.

She trudged out of the diner, buttoning her coat against the morning chill. The air was sharp and damp, biting at her cheeks as she made her way to the nearest bus stop. A few early commuters were already there, hunched in their jackets, earbuds in, eyes distant. No one spoke. The city didn't need words this early. Just motion. Routine.

The bus hissed to a stop, and she climbed aboard, sliding into her usual seat near the back by the window. The seat was worn, the upholstery cracked along the seams, but it was familiar. Safe. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass and let out a breath. Her reflection stared back at her—tired eyes, hair pulled into a low bun, a faint smudge of syrup on her collar.

The world outside blurred into a smear of motion: gray buildings, flickering traffic lights, the glow of corner stores just opening for the day.

She arrived home at 6:32 a.m.

The apartment building stood like a forgotten relic of the 1980s—peeling paint, iron stairs that groaned under weight, a door that stuck no matter how many times the landlord said he'd fix it. She jiggled the handle, shouldered it open, and stepped inside.

The scent of baby powder, leftover macaroni, and faint lavender oil met her at the door. She dropped her keys into the chipped ceramic bowl on the entry table and stepped into the living room.

Sasha was passed out on the couch, one arm thrown over her eyes, still in her hoodie and leggings. The TV was paused mid-Cocomelon tune, a frozen image of a cartoon baby smiling blankly. On the thick rug just beneath the screen, three tiny bodies were sprawled like kittens in a pile—Caleb, Caden, and Cole, tangled together under a blanket, one of them snoring softly.

Ariella's chest tightened.

She slipped off her shoes, knelt beside them, and ran a gentle hand through Caleb's curls, then brushed a kiss on Caden's cheek and tucked the blanket more snugly around Cole.

"Morning, little superheroes," she whispered, her voice thick with love and exhaustion. "Mama's home."

She didn't move for several long minutes. Just sat there in the silence, soaking in their warmth, their soft breaths, the miracle of them.

Her miracle.

One Week Later

The day started like any other. Cold cereal. A tantrum over mismatched socks. Caden trying to flush a toy car down the toilet. The usual.

She had two hours before her next shift at the diner, so while Sasha took the boys to the park, Ariella sat at the small kitchen table with her second cup of instant coffee and flipped through the local paper—mostly out of habit. Most job postings were dead ends. "Sales reps needed" always translated to commission-only. "Remote work opportunities" were usually scams. But she still looked. Because someday, maybe, something real would appear.

That day, something did.

Her eyes skimmed past a sale on winter tires, skipped a teeth whitening ad, and landed on a square block of text printed in bold navy blue. Her breath caught.

BLACKWOOD INNOVATIONS—NOW HIRING.

She blinked.

Position: Executive Secretary

Location: Midtown Office Tower, Suite 42

Requirements: Highly organized. Efficient. Discreet. Excellent communication skills.

Experience preferred. Degree optional.

Full-time. Competitive salary. Benefits included.

Her coffee sat forgotten as she read it again. And again.

Blackwood Innovations.

The name alone carried weight. Power. Wealth. Dorian Blackwood—the elusive tech mogul and billionaire CEO—was a household name, especially in New York. He rarely appeared in public, but when he did, it was front-page news. Smart. Intimidating. Untouchable.

Ariella had never imagined herself within ten miles of a company like his.

But now… here was an opportunity. Real. Concrete.

Her heart thudded in her chest.

She didn't have a college degree, true. But she had survived worse. She'd worked two jobs while raising triplets alone. Managed a household budget with surgical precision. Memorized appointments, feeding schedules, laundry cycles, and pediatrician instructions without missing a beat.

She could type 80 words a minute. She could read people. She could juggle chaos.

And she was desperate for more.

She pushed back from the table and rushed into the bedroom, yanked open the desk drawer, and pulled out her old resume. It was outdated, wrinkled, and incomplete. But it was a start.

That afternoon, while the boys napped, she rewrote it from scratch.

She didn't have degrees, but she had grit.

She didn't have titles, but she had tenacity.

And by the time she hit print, her hands were trembling with something she hadn't felt in a long time.

Hope.

"Blackwood Innovations?" Sasha gaped as she leaned over the kitchen counter, smoothie in hand. "Girl, are you trying to make me cry from pride—or from a nervous breakdown?"

Ariella Monroe smirked, rinsing out the boys' juice cups. "Maybe both."

Sasha squinted. "You do know they probably get thousands of applications, right? Like, corporate jungle thousands. What if they don't even see yours?"

Ariella wiped her hands on her faded jeans, the edges frayed from too many washes. "Then I send it again. And again. I need this."

Sasha exhaled with the weight of someone who'd watched her best friend barely sleep for three years. "Then we're getting you that job. I'll help you prep for the interview. Tori's off on Thursday—she can keep the boys. And I'll dig out one of my good blazers. It's a size too big, but it's got main-character energy."

Ariella blinked. "I haven't even gotten a callback yet."

"You will. Manifest it, babe," Sasha said, tapping her temple. "Say it with me: I am getting that job."

Ariella rolled her eyes but whispered, "I'm getting that job."

The email came two weeks later.

She was elbow-deep in laundry, separating socks from underwear, when her phone buzzed. She nearly ignored it until she saw the subject line:

Blackwood Innovations – Interview Invitation

Ariella froze. Her breath caught. Her hands shook. She tapped the email open—and the phone slipped right out of her grasp and landed in the laundry basket.

The message was short. Professional. Brutal in its precision.

Dear Ms. Monroe,

Your application has been reviewed. You are invited for an in-person interview at our headquarters. Please arrive at 9:30 a.m. sharp next Friday. Dress code: business formal.

Tardiness will disqualify the applicant.

Her scream startled Caden awake. Cole began crying in solidarity. Caleb yelled "monster!" and tried to hit the laundry basket with a plastic sword. Ariella didn't care—she was too busy trying to breathe.

Sasha ran in from the living room, towel in her hair. "What? What happened?!"

Ariella held up her phone. "They want me to come in. Blackwood Innovations. Interview. Next Friday."

Sasha squealed. "Shut up! Are you serious?"

Tori, who'd just come home from a shift at the salon, peeked in and immediately launched into a flurry of celebratory texts and GIFs—one of Beyoncé, one of Viola Davis throwing confetti.

Ariella stood there, rooted in the middle of the room, her boys yelling and tugging at her legs, her phone still glowing in her hand.

"This could change everything," she whispered, almost too softly to hear.

The morning of the interview was a storm in heels.

Cole spilled orange juice all over Ariella's freshly ironed pants. Caleb refused to let go of her ankle. Caden screamed when his banana broke in half.

Sasha showed up at 8:00 a.m. sharp with a bag of bagels, a venti coffee, and the kind of look that said We are not messing this up.

Tori helped steam the blazer and wrangle the boys into the living room with a marathon of Bluey and a box of Goldfish crackers.

Ariella changed three times. Her nerves were lava under her skin. But by 8:40 a.m., she was out the door, with lipstick on and resume in hand.

Blackwood Innovations stood like a monument to the modern age—towering steel and shimmering glass, reflecting the early morning sun like a blade. Ariella arrived at 9:15 sharp, her heels echoing on the sleek marble floor of the lobby.

Her heart jackhammered. She'd never been in a building like this. A receptionist with a cool chignon and colder lipstick pointed her toward the 23rd floor.

The elevator ride was endless.

At the top, a man in a black suit was waiting.

"Ms. Monroe? Right this way."

She followed him past open-concept offices, glass-walled conference rooms, and people in sharply tailored suits who looked like they belonged in magazines.

They entered a corner room where a panel of three executives sat. A woman in navy. A man with a sharp widow's peak. And a man whose presence eclipsed the rest.

Steel-gray eyes. A tailored charcoal suit. A face that belonged on the cover of Forbes.

Dorian Blackwood. CEO. Legend. Billionaire. The subject of a million whispered rumors.

Ariella's breath snagged in her throat.

"Ms. Monroe," he said, his voice rich and measured. "Tell us—why do you want to work here?"

She straightened her shoulders. She thought of Caleb, who couldn't sleep without her. Of Cole, who still held her pinky finger whenever he got scared. Of Caden, who always asked if he'd have enough breakfast tomorrow. She thought of overdue bills. Of nights spent folding laundry at midnight. Of dreams she'd tucked away for later.

She met Dorian's eyes. Unflinching.

"Because I have three reasons to never give up."

The interview lasted forty-five minutes.

She answered questions about data organization, conflict resolution, scheduling systems, and her five-year plan (which she didn't have, but somehow managed to improvise).

When she stepped out of the building, the air hit her like a reset button.

Her knees almost gave out.

She pulled out her phone.

Me: I did it. I think I nailed it? I don't know.

Sasha: You did. I believe in you.

Me: They said they'll call next week.

Sasha: If they don't, we riot.

Me: Deal.

That night, she let the boys build a fort in the living room with every pillow they owned. Cole curled against her chest, thumb in his mouth. Caleb declared himself "Knight King" and poked Caden with a broomstick until they both broke into giggles.

Ariella leaned back, arms around her sons, the blanket tent overhead glowing from a nearby lamp.

She was still tired. Still broke. Still unsure what the future would look like.

But there was something new in her chest—something featherlight and fierce at once.

Hope.

And this time, she was holding on tight.

Whatever came next... she was ready.