CHAPTER 1
1549 Words
=EMPTY SEATS=
The blue hospital scrubs clung to Marcus Sullivan’s back as he jogged across the school parking lot, sweat streaking down his spine despite the crisp bite of autumn air. His breath came in sharp bursts, uneven from the sprint out of the ER, the mad dash for a cab, and the infuriating crawl through rush-hour traffic.
3:24 p.m.
Family Day had started twenty-four minutes ago.
He cursed under his breath and pushed through the gates of Timberlake Academy, flashing his visitor badge to the security guard with a tight, apologetic nod. His chest thudded with more than exertion. This wasn’t just another missed meeting or a patient check-in. This was the one thing his daughter had begged him—pleaded with him—not to miss.
“Just be there, Daddy. That’s all,”
She had handed him the crayon-colored flyer three nights ago, her voice hushed with a hint of hope. Little hearts framed the hand-drawn letters: Family Day – Friday @ 3:00 PM! Bring Your Parents! She’d drawn a stick figure of herself between two smiling adults—one tall with glasses, the other in a pink dress. The woman didn’t resemble her mother. It didn’t seem to matter.
He’d sworn he’d make it.
And now, like the ballet recital in June, the school garden project in April, and the field trip to the museum last fall, he was late. Again.
Marcus ducked into the multipurpose hall, his eyes immediately scanning the sea of pastel balloons and laughter. Children ran between activity stations, giggling as they glued crowns, stacked marshmallow towers, and built cardboard castles. The air smelled of glue sticks and juice boxes. His white sneakers squeaked against the linoleum floor as he searched.
And then he saw her.
Lila sat alone at a table in the far corner, small and still, bent over a piece of construction paper. Her classmates giggled beside their parents, their tables overflowing with glitter and crafts. But around her, two empty chairs stood like silent accusations.
Marcus's stomach clenched.
He took a step forward, only to be intercepted by a chipper voice.
“Dr. Sullivan!” Her kindergarten teacher, Ms. Delaney, beamed, clipboard in hand. “We’re so glad you could make it.”
He nodded, distracted. “Sorry. Emergency surgery ran over.”
She offered a sympathetic smile. “She’s been very patient. Told me you’d come eventually.”
He managed a faint, guilty smile and slipped past her, his gaze never leaving his daughter.
Lila didn’t look up as he approached. She ran her marker in slow loops across the page, the ink bleeding through. Her shoulders were hunched, her small frame curled inward, as if she were trying to disappear.
“Hey, munchkin,” he said softly, crouching beside her.
She paused, her hand stilling mid-scribble. When she looked up, her deep hazel eyes—so much like his—were unreadable. Not quite angry. Not quite sad. Just… quiet.
“You came,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He reached out, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “Of course I did. I’m sorry I was late.”
She gave a tiny nod and pushed the red marker toward him. “It’s okay. Want to help me make a rocket ship?”
He forced a grin. “Only if I get to be captain.”
That earned a flicker of a smile, small but real.
They spent the next half hour gluing glitter stars onto poster board, cutting triangles from foil, and building a cardboard rocket patched together with duct tape and hope. Marcus cracked bad space jokes. Lila rolled her eyes at each one, but the stiffness in her shoulders gradually eased. Her smile started to linger.
But then the whispers began.
A blonde girl with perfectly braided hair pointed toward them and whispered to her mother. The woman glanced at Marcus’s way, then leaned down to her daughter, whispering something back with a sideways glance.
Lila stiffened.
Marcus followed her gaze and saw the little girl mouthing a question: Where’s her mommy?
His blood turned hot.
He wanted to storm over and say something sharp. Something scathing. But Lila just hunched over her glitter, pretending not to hear. She didn’t look up again after that.
When the event concluded, the principal delivered the closing remarks. Children raced to their parents with crafts and gifts. Lila quietly held up her paper rocket.
“I made this for you,” she said.
He took it as if it were the most precious thing in the world. “I’ll keep it in my locker at the hospital.”
Her eyes brightened. “So the other doctors can see?”
“Absolutely. It’ll be the coolest thing in the ER.”
As they walked toward the exit, Lila slowed near a group of classmates. One girl leapt into her mother’s arms, squealing. A dad scooped his daughter up and spun her around while the mom laughed beside them, snapping photos. Lila stared a moment too long.
She didn’t say a word.
But she reached for Marcus’s hand and held on tight.
—
The drive home was quiet.
Marcus glanced at the rearview mirror. Lila stared out the window, chin on her knees.
“Are you okay, kiddo?”
She nodded once. Then: “Why doesn’t Mommy come to Family Day?”
His throat tightened.
“She’s… really busy with work, sweetheart. But she loves you.”
“I told my friends that,” she said softly. But Mia said if my mommy loved me, she’d come. She said maybe I don’t even have a real mommy.”
Marcus’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “You do have a real mommy. She just… shows love differently.”
Lila didn’t respond. She leaned her head against the window and went quiet again.
—
Back home, the silence in the house pressed on Marcus’s shoulders. Lila dropped her backpack by the door and disappeared into her room. He followed a few minutes later and found her asleep, curled around her stuffed panda. A crayon drawing lay on the bed beside her.
Three stick figures. One tall. One small. One in a pink dress.
“Mommy” was written in large, crooked letters above the woman’s head.
She didn’t look like Sarah.
She looked like someone Lila had made up.
Someone she wished was real.
Marcus sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake her. He brushed a curl off her cheek. She sighed in her sleep.
The ache in his chest expanded like wildfire.
He had spent years balancing life as a single father and full-time trauma surgeon. He had missed so many little things. So many chances to make her feel whole. And Sarah? She hadn’t called in months. No visits. No cards. Just silence.
Lila didn’t need silence.
She needed someone.
That night, after he showered and let the scalding water chase away the day, Marcus sat at the kitchen table with his laptop. The clock blinked past midnight. His fingers hovered above the keyboard.
It was a ridiculous idea.
No—desperate.
But then he saw the drawing again. And he remembered the way Lila had glanced at the other families.
He began to type.
Seeking a stand-in mom for family functions. You must be warm, friendly, and have a good rapport with children. Temporary role. Not live-in. Background check required. Compensation negotiable. Discretion mandatory.
He stared at the words.
Then he clicked post.
The ad went live.
He closed the laptop, poured himself a drink, and sat in the dim kitchen, letting the silence settle like dust.
What the hell am I doing?
The ice clinked in the glass. The whiskey burned down his throat, but didn’t chase away the guilt.
Then, from down the hall, the soft shuffle of footsteps.
Lila padded into the kitchen, panda in hand, her eyes heavy with sleep.
“Can’t sleep,” she mumbled.
He bent down and scooped her into his lap. “Nightmare?”
She shook her head. “I dreamed Mommy came. But when I hugged her, she disappeared.”
His heart clenched. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
She rested her head on his chest. “I wish I had a mom who could stay.”
He held her close. Tighter.
Neither spoke again.
Eventually, she fell asleep in his arms.
He carried her back to bed and tucked her in, lingering for a moment at her door before turning back down the hall.
The laptop screen blinked in the dark.
New message received.
Marcus froze.
He sat down and opened it.
Hello. I’m responding to your listing. I have experience working with children, a flexible schedule, and a strong ability to remain polite and composed in awkward situations. I also bake decent cookies, if that’s a perk. —L.
Attached was a small profile photo.
A woman, mid-20s, curly brown hair pulled into a messy bun, vintage sunglasses perched on her head. A dimple curved into her left cheek.
But it was her eyes that stopped him.
Something about them felt familiar. Too familiar.
He clicked on the photo, enlarging it.
His stomach flipped.
Where had he seen her before?
>End of Chapter
- Writer
