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Because I know?—
I won’t be able to sleep.
And I won’t be able to stop this feeling growing in my gut.
Something is wrong.
And I think?—
I think I’m running out of time.
I don’t sleep.
I sit in my dimly lit apartment, curled up on the couch with my phone in my hands, staring at the screen as if I can will my mother to text me back.
Nothing.
I try to distract myself—picking up a book, watching the flickering streetlights outside, even turning on the TV at low volume. But my mind is a restless storm, circling the same thought over and over again.
She’s gone.
And it’s my fault.
I rub my stomach absentmindedly, a small movement that has become second nature. The babies shift inside me, and the reminder makes my throat tighten.
I can’t justwait.
What if she’s trying to reach me? What if she lost her phone? What if she’s stranded somewhere? The what-ifs claw at me, scraping away my common sense.
I reach for my phone and do the one thing I told myself I wouldn’t do.
I call her.
Not on our usual burner number, but on her real number.
The one she never uses anymore.
The one I know is dangerous.
I hit call.
The line rings.
And rings.
And then?—
Aclick.
My heart leaps into my throat. “Mom?”
A long, dragging silence.
I swallow hard. “Mom, if you’re there?—”
Breathing.
Slow. Even.