My Hope

DADDY

I remember the sound of the door slamming open — sharp, jarring, like the start of a nightmare. The chaos erupted immediately after, the deafening roar of gunfire ripping through our home, tearing apart the walls and the life we’d known.

Daddy was the first thing I saw. He was struggling to stand, one hand pressed against his chest, where blood was already soaking through his shirt in a deep crimson bloom. His face was pale, twisted with pain, his breaths short and shaky.

“Daddy!” I screamed, frozen where I stood. I didn’t know what to do. I was too young to understand how to stop blood from spilling, how to turn back time, how to save someone you love. My tiny hands reached out anyway, desperate, useless, as if I could somehow pull him back from the edge.

He looked at me — his eyes, full of so many things I couldn’t name then. Fear. Regret. Love.

And then Mama was there. She swept in like a storm of calm in all the chaos, pulling me into her arms and holding me so tightly I could barely breathe.

“Jenna,” she whispered into my ear, her voice trembling even as she tried to sound strong. “Hide. Go to the bedroom. Under the bed. Don’t come out. Not until someone comes for you, okay?”

I didn’t argue. I couldn’t. I just nodded, tears blurring everything, and ran.

My legs felt like jelly as I stumbled down the hallway. I crawled under the bed, dragging Mama’s blanket down with me like a shield. The cool darkness wrapped around me, and I curled into a ball, pressing my hands over my ears.

I could still hear them — muffled voices, another gunshot. Silence. Then something I didn’t understand. A thud. Footsteps fading.

And then… nothing.

It felt like time stopped. I don’t know how long I lay there — minutes? Hours? The silence was louder than the gunfire, stretching endlessly. I held my breath every time the wind creaked through the walls, afraid it might not be the wind at all.

Finally, I heard it — sirens. Distant at first, then growing louder, closer. Red and blue lights flickered through the cracks in the window. Hope sparked in my chest like a tiny flame.

I crawled out from under the bed and ran to the living room. I climbed on one of the chairs to see out the window. My heart was pounding, but for the first time, it wasn’t from fear — it was hope. The police were here. Someone was here to help.

I smiled.

But then I looked harder. The flashing lights filled the yard. Officers spilled out of cars, yelling, running — but no one came from the house. Not Mama. Not Daddy.

The smile slipped from my face.

My breath caught. My fingers dug into the edge of the windowsill.

“Mama? "Daddy?” I whispered, my voice so small, it didn’t feel like it came from me. I waited. But they didn’t come out.

They never came back.