Chapter 3: Questions Without Answers
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Time moved quietly in Elena’s early years, not marked by calendars or clocks, but by small changes—her first steps, her first clear words, the way her tiny hands slowly learned to hold on and let go. The apartment in Chicago remained her entire world, but that world was no longer just something she observed. It was something she began to question.
At first, it showed in simple ways.
“Mommy?”
Her voice was soft, uncertain, still learning how to shape sounds into meaning. Maria turned from the small stove where she was preparing dinner, her tired face softening instantly.
“Yes, baby?”
Elena stood near the doorway, her small fingers curled around the edge of the wall. Her dark eyes were wide, thoughtful in a way that seemed older than her years.
“Why you go… every day?”
Maria paused.
The question was simple. Innocent.
But it carried a weight she hadn’t been ready for.
She wiped her hands slowly on a towel, buying herself a few seconds before walking over. Kneeling in front of Elena, she brushed a loose curl away from her daughter’s forehead.
“I go to work,” she said gently. “So I can take care of you.”
Elena tilted her head slightly, processing.
“Why?”
Maria let out a small breath, her chest tightening. How do you explain responsibility, survival, sacrifice—to someone who barely understood the world?
“So we can have food,” she replied softly. “And a home.”
Elena nodded, though it was clear she didn’t fully understand. But she accepted the answer—for now.
That was how it started.
As Elena grew older, her questions grew with her.
They came at unexpected moments—while eating, while playing, even in the quiet stillness before sleep.
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Why we no have big house… like TV?”
Maria’s hands stilled.
The television in the corner was old, its screen flickering occasionally, but Elena loved it. It showed her glimpses of a world far different from her own—bright houses, smiling families, rooms filled with toys.
Maria had always known those images would raise questions eventually.
She turned to Elena, forcing a small smile.
“Those are just shows,” she said. “Not everything on TV is real.”
Elena frowned slightly. “But… they happy.”
The words were simple, but they struck deeply.
Maria hesitated, then reached out, pulling Elena gently into her arms.
“We’re happy too,” she said quietly.
Elena leaned into her, resting her head against Maria’s chest. For a moment, she said nothing.
Then, in a small voice, “Okay.”
But not all questions were so easily answered.
One evening, as the sky darkened and the apartment settled into its usual quiet, Elena sat cross-legged on the floor, playing with a worn stuffed toy. Maria watched her from across the room, exhaustion tugging at her, but something about the stillness felt… different.
Elena wasn’t playing.
She was thinking.
“Mommy?”
Maria’s heart skipped slightly.
“Yes, Elena?”
The little girl looked up, her expression serious.
“Where my daddy?”
The room fell silent.
It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed Maria’s mind. She had known this question would come someday. But knowing didn’t make it easier.
For a moment, she couldn’t speak.
Elena waited, her eyes fixed on her mother’s face, searching for something she couldn’t yet name.
Maria stood slowly, walking over before sitting beside her. She pulled Elena close, holding her tightly, as if trying to protect her from the very answer she was about to give.
“He…” Maria began, her voice barely above a whisper, then stopped.
How could she explain absence?
How could she tell her daughter that the man who should have been there… simply wasn’t?
“He doesn’t live with us,” she said finally.
Elena blinked. “Why?”
Maria swallowed hard.
“Sometimes… people don’t stay,” she said carefully.
It wasn’t a lie.
But it wasn’t the whole truth either.
Elena’s brows furrowed, confusion settling across her small face.
“Did he go far?”
Maria nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“Is he coming back?”
The question hung in the air, fragile and heavy.
Maria felt something inside her c***k.
She pulled Elena closer, pressing a kiss to her hair.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
That night, Elena didn’t fall asleep as easily as usual.
She lay in her small bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind turning over thoughts she couldn’t fully understand. The idea of someone who was supposed to be there—but wasn’t—felt strange, incomplete.
“Mommy?”
Maria, sitting by the window, turned quickly. “Yes?”
“Other kids have daddy?”
Maria hesitated, then nodded. “Some do.”
Elena was quiet for a long moment.
“Why not me?”
There it was.
The question that carried more than curiosity—it carried the first hint of something deeper.
Something like loss.
Maria moved to her side instantly, sitting on the edge of the bed. She brushed her fingers gently over Elena’s cheek.
“Listen to me,” she said softly. “You have me. And I love you more than anything in this world.”
Elena looked at her, searching.
“I’m enough,” Maria added, her voice trembling slightly. “I promise.”
Elena studied her face for a moment longer, then slowly nodded.
“Okay, Mommy.”
But even as she closed her eyes, something had changed.
In the days that followed, Elena didn’t ask about her father again.
Not out loud.
But Maria noticed the difference.
The way Elena watched other families when they passed on the street. The way her gaze lingered on fathers lifting their children, laughing, present.
She didn’t speak.
She just observed.
And somewhere inside her, questions remained—unanswered, quietly growing.
Maria felt it too.
Every time Elena looked at her with those searching eyes, it was a reminder of what she couldn’t give. Of the space she couldn’t fill, no matter how hard she tried.
One evening, after Elena had fallen asleep, Maria sat alone in the dim light, her thoughts heavy.
“I’m trying,” she whispered into the silence. “I’m really trying.”
There was no response.
Just the quiet hum of the apartment and the distant sounds of the city beyond the walls.
But even in the midst of those unanswered questions, one thing remained steady.
Elena still reached for her mother first.
Still found comfort in her arms.
Still believed, in her own small way, that she was loved.
And for now, that was enough to keep the questions from breaking her.
As Elena drifted deeper into childhood, those questions would not disappear.
They would grow.
Change.
Become more complicated.
But this was where they began—not with anger, not with pain, but with quiet curiosity.
The kind that lingers.
The kind that waits.
The kind that doesn’t always find answers.
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