Sarah
The house was too quiet without Gia.
It wasn't like Gia made noise constantly — she wasn't that kind of girl. But her presence had always filled the space. Soft footsteps. Music from her phone. The occasional laughter spilling from a video call with Mia. The smell of coconut shampoo lingering in the hallway.
Now there was just… silence.
Sarah sat at the small kitchen table, sipping tea she didn't really want. She'd made it out of habit, not desire. Her hands curled around the mug like it could warm more than just her fingers.
Her daughter was in another city. In another world.
Philadelphia. With a boy she barely knew.
A boy with too much money and too many secrets.
Sarah didn't trust it. She didn't trust him.
She'd smiled on the phone, of course — called Gia her "cupcake" and told her she was proud. Because that's what a mother does. You smile through your teeth and hide the storm so your child can fly without looking back.
But now that the line had gone dead and the house was still, the storm crept back in.
She hadn't told Gia the whole truth about her past. Not yet. She wasn't sure she ever would.
There were things a girl shouldn't have to carry while she was still trying to figure out who she was. And Sarah had done everything — everything — to make sure Gia could grow up soft, safe, and strong.
But love couldn't always outrun blood.
And Sarah knew that better than anyone.
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She rose slowly from the chair and moved to the window. The neighborhood looked the same — kids playing in the street, neighbors arguing over parking, the hum of a radio from somewhere across the block. But to her, it all felt... dimmer.
She glanced down at the small garden Gia helped her plant just before she left. A crooked line of marigolds, one stubborn rose bush, and a stretch of mint that was already starting to crawl out of its patch.
Gia had been so proud of that garden. "It's not perfect," she'd said, "but it's ours."
Now it just looked unfinished.
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The door creaked open.
"Mia," Sarah said softly without turning. "You always walk in like you live here."
"Maybe I should," Mia answered, setting down two bags of groceries on the counter. "It's quieter than my house."
Sarah chuckled. "Don't tempt me."
She turned, finally, and met Mia's tired eyes. There was something comforting about the girl — fast-talking, funny, sharp as a whip — but behind all that, there was steadiness too. A kind of loyalty you didn't see much anymore.
"You alright, Miss Sarah?" Mia asked, opening the fridge.
Sarah nodded once. "As alright as I can be with my baby girl flying around in private jets."
Mia smirked. "I'd kill for that problem."
But Sarah just looked at her.
A quiet, knowing look.
And Mia's smirk faded a little.
"You worried about him?"
"I'm a mother," Sarah said simply. "I worry about everything."
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Later that night, when Mia had gone and the dishes were clean and the lights turned low, Sarah sat on the edge of her bed with her phone in her hand.
No new messages.
She stared at the screen like it might buzz if she stared hard enough. Then she typed something out and erased it. Typed again. Erased it again.
In the end, she turned the phone off and set it face-down on the nightstand.
Then she laid down slowly and whispered into the dark:
"God… please let my baby be safe."