No One Came Chapter 18
It was late again.
Mom sat at my desk, the little lamp casting a warm glow.
A photo of me as a child sat on the desk.
In the picture, I was maybe three years old, with two little pigtails, smiling for the camera.
She reached out and touched the face in the photo, then picked up her phone and opened our text thread.
She had sent a message to my number every single day since I died.
Not one day had been missed.
“Adriana, Mom cleaned your room. When are you coming home?”
“Adriana, Mom saw a girl on the street today from behind who looked just like you.”
“I followed her for two blocks before I realized it wasn’t you.”
“Adriana, Mom is so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”
The messages were always marked with a green “Sent.”
They would never turn blue and say “Read.”
And no one would ever reply.
I floated behind her, looking at her stooped shoulders.
Most of her hair was white now.
She was only forty-two.
She’d lost so much weight, too. Her clothes hung off her frame.
I suddenly remembered something from a long time ago.
I must have been four or five, and I was burning up with a fever, all the way to 104.
Mom stayed up all night by my bed, wiping my body over and over with a cool, damp towel.
When I opened my eyes in a daze, I saw her face, etched with worry, her eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
Back then, I really believed my mom loved me.