Mother was leaving again, as she always did when the lights in the house were switched off early. It meant that Mother and Father weren’t talking and that the child was awake in her bed when she heard the soft creak of the floorboards beneath Mother’s feet. As her bedroom door was eased open, she stepped toward her, leaning down to whisper a soft goodbye. The child lay still, her eyes remaining closed.
Mother had left three times before she learned to stay awake, to fill the hours waiting for her inevitable goodbye with the plastic stars scattered across her ceiling. She’d watch them until their shapes blurred and stretched, distant figures swirling into a silent dance made for her tired eyes alone. Sometimes she longed to pull them down, loosen their hold on the ceiling so she could watch them from the palm of her hand. They swayed to the rhythm of her thoughts, a constant hum of Mother always returned. Even if she never said it outright.
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