Night Shift
For eleven years Lakshmi had worked the night shift at the bakery, because the night shift paid more and the days were for her daughter.
She was good at the dark. She knew how long to let the dough rest and how to cross an empty kitchen without a sound. At four, when the first loaves came out, the whole street seemed to hold its breath for the smell. She did not mind that nobody saw her. A mountain, she sometimes thought, is not built to be admired. It is built to stand where it stands, and let the rivers begin.
In June her daughter graduated. The hall was full of people who had arrived with flowers and opinions about seating. Lakshmi sat at the back with her shoes aching and a paper bag on her lap, still faintly warm.
When the name was called, the girl crossed the stage and, instead of looking at the dean, looked straight to the last row, and bowed her head once to the one person in the room who knew what the diploma weighed.
Lakshmi did not cry. She was not that sort. She sat very straight, held the warm bag, and let the applause go on without her, the way a mountain lets the weather.
Invented. No real person is described, and the story is not a portrait of anyone born under this sign.