My mom, Diane, slowly stopped showing up to her job at a grocery store and spent her days on the couch scrolling through her phone or watching reality shows, barely noticing when I came or went.
At first we still had small traditions that made life feel stable, but those faded as arguments about money grew louder and unpaid bills piled up on the kitchen counter.
The refrigerator went from full to half empty, then nearly bare, and my mom would wave toward the pantry and say there were noodles so I would be fine.
I started working at a small ice cream shop after school, handing over my paycheck because I believed it would help.
It never stayed long enough to matter.
One cold morning, I woke up to a silence that felt wrong even for our house.
Their bed was made, their closet half empty, and the kitchen held nothing but spoiled milk and a few wilted vegetables.
A folded note sat on the table with my name on it.
“Avery, we can’t do this anymore. Your uncle will take care of you. We’re sorry. Take care of yourself.”
I read it over and over until the words blurred, realizing there was no plan and no way to reach them.