Emma's Drawing
The new home felt cozy, sunlight streaming through clean windows. Emma sprawled on the rug, engrossed in drawing, crayons coloring bold shapes. "What are you drawing, sweetie?" I sat beside her. She held up the picture: simple lines—a tall blue figure, a pink figure with a ponytail holding a small yellow one. Vast white space between them. "That's Daddy!" she pointed to blue, then pink. "Mommy!" Last, the yellow figure.
"Emma!" Her finger traced the emptiness, voice small. "Daddy can't live with us now." My heart wrenched. I pulled her close, cheek against soft hair, breathing in child-shampoo scent. "Mm-hmm," throat tight, I kept calm. "Daddy lives elsewhere. But he's still your daddy. He'll miss you." She nestled deeper into me, crumpling the drawing's edge. That vast white gap stretched like an unhealed wound—across the paper, between us three.
Midnight Regret
Two AM. Emma asleep. The new home echoed silence. Thin walls carried neighbors' muffled TV. I curled on the small sofa, lights off. Moonlight frost-coated the floor. Phone in hand, Ethan's number glowing on screen. Fingertips hovered over dial, trembling. Thoughts collided savagely: *If only I hadn't introduced them... If I'd noticed sooner...
If I hadn't smashed that door... pretended ignorance... could we have salvaged that crumbling home? For Emma... The urge bloomed toxic—self-destructive. Just press... pretend nothing happened... for her sake... My finger descended. Nearing the cold screen— Emma murmured in sleep: "...Mommy..." Ice water doused me. Clarity surged. I jerked my hand back as if burned. For Emma? Feed her a lie-built home of betrayal? Raise her in twisted false peace? No. The phone's glow illuminated my ghostly face. I switched it off. Darkness swallowed the room. And that weak moment of regret.
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The new home felt cozy, sunlight streaming through clean windows. Emma sprawled on the rug, engrossed in drawing, crayons coloring bold shapes. "What are you drawing, sweetie?" I sat beside her. She held up the picture: simple lines—a tall blue figure, a pink figure with a ponytail holding a small yellow one. Vast white space between them. "That's Daddy!" she pointed to blue, then pink. "Mommy!" Last, the yellow figure.
"Emma!" Her finger traced the emptiness, voice small. "Daddy can't live with us now." My heart wrenched. I pulled her close, cheek against soft hair, breathing in child-shampoo scent. "Mm-hmm," throat tight, I kept calm. "Daddy lives elsewhere. But he's still your daddy. He'll miss you." She nestled deeper into me, crumpling the drawing's edge. That vast white gap stretched like an unhealed wound—across the paper, between us three.
Midnight Regret
Two AM. Emma asleep. The new home echoed silence. Thin walls carried neighbors' muffled TV. I curled on the small sofa, lights off. Moonlight frost-coated the floor. Phone in hand, Ethan's number glowing on screen. Fingertips hovered over dial, trembling. Thoughts collided savagely: *If only I hadn't introduced them... If I'd noticed sooner...
If I hadn't smashed that door... pretended ignorance... could we have salvaged that crumbling home? For Emma... The urge bloomed toxic—self-destructive. Just press... pretend nothing happened... for her sake... My finger descended. Nearing the cold screen— Emma murmured in sleep: "...Mommy..." Ice water doused me. Clarity surged. I jerked my hand back as if burned. For Emma? Feed her a lie-built home of betrayal? Raise her in twisted false peace? No. The phone's glow illuminated my ghostly face. I switched it off. Darkness swallowed the room. And that weak moment of regret.
NEXT >>
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