Every night, she curls into blankets too big for her small body, clutching the edge where Mama used to sit. She calls out softly, a word that once brought warmth, a glass of milk, a kiss on the forehead: “Mama…” But no one answers. The walls, once full of laughter and lullabies, hold their breath. The door never opens. She doesn’t understand where Mama went. They told her Mama was “sleeping” or “resting far away,” but no one explains why sleeping people don’t come home.
She watches the window at dusk, waiting for footsteps on the path, a shadow to fill the empty frame. Sometimes she thinks she hears it — keys at the door, the gentle hum of Mama’s favorite song — but it’s only wind brushing against memories. Her father tiptoes past her room, wiping tears with the back of his hand, whispering promises he can’t keep. He tucks her in, kisses her hair, tells her Mama loves her so much. But he can’t tell her why love can’t stay.
She carries Mama’s scarf everywhere, wraps it around her doll so the scent doesn’t fade. In the garden, she picks flowers Mama once planted and leaves them on the pillow beside her. She talks to the stars when she’s brave enough to believe they might talk back. She dreams of Mama’s voice in the night, soft and forever kind.
But every morning she wakes alone. The house grows older around her, but her small hope doesn’t. Every bedtime, she calls out — “Mama?” — and waits for a voice that will never come back through the door. The word floats through the dark, a tiny, unbroken wish for arms that are gone forever, yet somehow never gone enough to stop her calling.
