BEATRICE
The house is dim and quiet, the kind of silence that feels like it's holding its breath.
The TV flickers weakly in the corner, casting bluish shadows across the room. The sound is low, some old sitcom playing, the laugh track too loud for the dead stillness around me. I sit curled on the couch, knees pulled to my chest, a blanket thrown around my shoulders like armour. But it doesn't warm me.
Teddy is in my room, fast asleep. He’d cuddled up beside me earlier, little hands fisted in my shirt like he was afraid I'd leave. He doesn't know the things I carry. I hope he never does.
Mom's coming home tomorrow.
I keep telling myself that, repeating it like a prayer. She's coming back. It'll be different this time.
Maybe she'll stay. Maybe she'll see how much we've been needing her
