Nobody Came Back

The first thing I remember is the rain. Not my mother’s face. Not my father’s voice. Not even the red sedan disappearing down the road. The rain. Cold. Heavy. Relentless. It soaked through my clothes within seconds, plastering my purple-striped shirt against my skin and turning the denim of my overalls nearly black. I stood beneath the weak yellow light outside the train station with one suitcase beside me and a backpack hanging from my shoulders. I was thirteen years old. And my parents had just left me. I didn’t understand that yet. Not really. “Mom!” I screamed so loudly my throat hurt. The sedan’s taillights glowed red through the rain. “Dad!” I ran after them. My suitcase tipped over behind me. I didn’t care. “WAIT!” The sedan accelerated. “No!” My sneaker slipped against the wet pavement. I hit the ground hard. Pain shot through my knee. I barely felt it. “PLEASE!” I pushed myself up. Water splashed beneath my hands as I stumbled forward again. “COME BACK!” The taillights became smaller. Smaller. Then disappeared. I stood in the middle of the road staring after them. They were coming back. They had to. Maybe Dad was angry. Maybe Mom needed time to calm down. Maybe they wanted to scare me. Parents didn’t actually leave their children at train stations. That wasn’t something real parents did. Was it? A car horn blasted behind me. I jumped and scrambled toward the sidewalk. The driver yelled something through his window. I didn’t hear him. I couldn’t hear anything except Mom’s voice from earlier. We’re done. Two words. That was all. We’re done. I sat beside my overturned suitcase. My hands shook as I pulled it upright. One suitcase. That was what thirteen years of my life had been reduced to. Mom packed it herself. Jeans. Shirts. Underwear. Socks. Two pairs of pajamas. A hoodie. A jacket. Sneakers. My toothbrush. A comb. A few other things. She hadn’t let me pack. I had begged. “What about my books?” “You don’t need them.” “My pictures?” “No.” “My school things?” “No.” “My sunflower blanket?” “Stop asking.” That one hurt. I’d had that blanket since I was little. Yellow sunflowers covered the entire thing. Whenever I had nightmares, I pulled it over my head and pretended nothing bad could reach me beneath it. Apparently, blankets couldn’t protect you from everything. My backpack contained food. Sandwiches. Crackers. Fruit. Bottled water. Enough, Mom said, to “get me started.” Dad gave me money. Four hundred dollars. I didn’t know if that was a lot. At thirteen, four hundred dollars sounded like enough money to survive forever. I know better now. I knew almost nothing then. I knew how to do homework. I knew how to wash dishes. I knew how to clean my room. I knew how to heat food in a microwave. I knew multiplication, fractions, and the capitals of most states. I did not know how to find somewhere to live. I didn’t know how to rent a room. I didn’t know how to get a job. I didn’t know how to survive without adults. Because I was a child. But apparently that didn’t matter anymore. I wiped rain from my face. It mixed with my tears. My knee was bleeding. I looked toward the road again. Nothing. I waited. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. They would come back. I knew they would. Because even though my parents had never been affectionate, they weren’t monsters. They fed me. They bought me clothes. They gave me a bedroom. They sent me to school. We ate dinner together sometimes. They remembered my birthday. Most years. Maybe they didn’t hug me much. Maybe Mom never kissed my forehead. Maybe Dad never called me princess. Maybe they didn’t say I love you. But I had parents. A family. A home. Until that morning. I woke up for school like normal. I brushed my teeth. Washed my face. Got dressed. Then Mom told me not to put on my uniform. I thought I was staying home. Instead, Dad was sitting at the kitchen table with papers in front of him. Mom wouldn’t look at me. They explained that they had made a decision. A final decision. They didn’t want to raise me anymore. I laughed. I actually laughed because I thought it was some horrible joke. Then Dad told me they had already handled everything. Their parental rights. Legal paperwork. Arrangements. Words I didn’t understand. Words a thirteen-year-old shouldn’t have needed to understand. “You’re old enough to figure things out,” he said. I stared at him. “What?” “You’re not a baby.” “I’m thirteen.” “We know how old you are.” Mom said it like my age annoyed her. I started crying. Then screaming. Then begging. I promised to be better. That was the worst part. I didn’t even know what I had done wrong, but I promised to fix it. I would clean more. Talk less. Get better grades, even though I already got good grades. I wouldn’t ask for anything. I wouldn’t bother them. I would stay in my room. I would make my own food. Anything. “Please don’t make me leave.” Mom finally looked at me. Her expression didn’t change. “We wanted a son.” I stopped crying. I had always known. They never exactly hid it. There were little comments. Stories about how Dad had dreamed of teaching his son things. How Mom had picked a boy’s name before I was born. How disappointed they had been when the doctor told them I was a girl. But I thought they got over it. I thought thirteen years had changed something. Apparently not. “You were never what we planned,” she said. I couldn’t breathe. Dad stood. “That’s enough.” For one hopeful second, I thought he was defending me. He wasn’t. He picked up my suitcase. “Let’s go.” That was how I ended up at the station. No goodbye. No hug. No promise to call. Just four hundred dollars, a suitcase, some food— and rain. Hours passed. The station became quieter. I sat beneath the awning with my knees against my chest. Every pair of headlights made me stand. Every red car made my heart jump. Every time, it was someone else. Eventually, an employee came outside. “You waiting for somebody?” I nodded. “My parents.” He looked toward the empty parking lot. “They running late?” “Yes.” The lie came automatically. He studied me for a second. “You got a phone?” I shook my head. Mom had taken it that morning. “Know their number?” Of course I did. I could have called. I could have asked him. Instead, I said, “They’re coming.” Maybe I was afraid that if I called and Mom told me she wasn’t coming back, it would make everything real. The man went inside. I stayed. Midnight came. Then one. Then two. I curled up beside my suitcase. The backpack became my pillow. I didn’t sleep. I watched the road. Morning arrived. They didn’t. I ate one sandwich. Drank half a bottle of water. And waited. The second night was harder. By then, I knew. I just refused to say it. On the third day, I finally used the station phone. I called home. It rang. And rang. And rang. No answer. I called again. Nothing. I called a third time. Voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. What was I supposed to say? Hi, Mom. It’s your daughter. Remember me? I called my best friend. Her mother answered. The second she heard my name, her voice changed. “Amara?” “Can I talk to Kayla?” Silence. Then, “Sweetheart, where are you?” I hung up. I was terrified she would tell someone. I didn’t know what would happen if people found out. Would police come? Would they arrest my parents? Would someone force me into a stranger’s house? Would they send me somewhere? I knew nothing. So I did what scared children sometimes do when they don’t understand the world. I hid. By the fifth day, I stopped watching every red car. I stopped jumping when someone entered the station. I stopped imagining Dad walking through the doors. Something inside me had gone quiet. I went into the bathroom and looked at myself. My braids were messy. My eyes were swollen. The sunflower clip Mom bought me years ago was still pinned to the left side of my bangs. I touched it gently. Then I cried harder than I had the night they left. Not because I missed my house. Not because I missed my bed. Because I finally understood. Nobody was coming. Mom wasn’t coming. Dad wasn’t coming. My friends didn’t know where I was. School would continue without me. My desk would eventually belong to someone else. My room would become something else. My life had continued somewhere without me in it. At thirteen, I lost everything. My family. My friends. My home. My education. My comfort. My joy. But the worst thing I lost was something I wasn’t sure I had ever possessed. Love. I washed my face. Fixed my sunflower clip. Put my backpack over my shoulders. Then I picked up my suitcase. I had four hundred dollars. Some food. A few clothes. And nowhere to go. So I walked out of the station. I didn’t know where I was going. I only knew one thing. I wasn’t waiting anymore.