And me?
I’m the chapter they quietly closed.
Holidays come and go like wind through an empty street. Every year, the excuses change, but the outcome never does.
“Flights are too expensive right now, Mom.”
“The kids have programs.”
“We’re spending Christmas with the in-laws this time.”
“Maybe next year.”
Next year never arrives.
So I keep working. I keep cleaning the world they live in, even if they’ve forgotten the woman who helped build it.
That’s why I was at the interstate rest stop that early Tuesday morning—alone, halfway through my shift, pushing a mop across cold tile while the sky outside was still black.
That’s when I heard it.
At first, it sounded like nothing. A soft, broken noise. Almost like a stray kitten.
I stopped breathing.
Then it came again—clearer this time. A thin, desperate cry that didn’t belong in an empty bathroom.
