And yet she did not go home.
Pride is a strange thing.
Sometimes it keeps people standing.
Sometimes it prevents them from saving what matters.
On the third morning, Maya woke up on a couch with a pounding headache and a terrible weight pressing against her chest. The house smelled of spilled drinks and old smoke. Her friends were asleep. The lake outside looked calm, almost innocent.
She reached for her phone.
Twelve missed calls.
Seven messages.
The last message was from Mrs. Linda.
Maya, please answer me. I’ve knocked and knocked. I can’t hear the baby anymore. Come home right now.
Maya read it once.
Then again.
The phone slipped from her hand.
For the first time in three days, she did not imagine herself trapped.
She imagined her son.
The yellow onesie.
The missing sock.
The tiny fingers near his cheek.
The crib in that silent room.
