Mom’s voice cuts through my sleep as she shakes me gently.My eyes flutter open, blinking at the morning light spilling into my room.I sit up and smile at her.She’ll never know how much I’ve missed waking up to her face again.
“Hey,” I mumble, still half-asleep.
“Hey, sweetheart.Breakfast’s ready.I made your favorite cinnamon bread pudding,” she says while straightening the table and the shelf by my bed.
“Thanks, Mom.”I pull my hair into a messy ponytail and stretch.
“Don’t forget to sort out the stuff you wanna sell at the bazaar after breakfast,” she chirps, glancing at my suitcase.
“Alright.”I nod, and she chuckles softly before heading to the door, her steps light and familiar.
After a quick shower, I sit at the dining table and dig into the bread pudding.It’s warm and creamy, filled with that sweet cinnamon smell I’ve missed for years.
For the first time since I started modeling, I actually finish a whole bowl.Usually, breakfast means an apple and a glass of water, but right now, I don’t give a damn about my diet.Who could resist this?
This time, I just want to enjoy my winter break.Maybe I’ll hit the gym later to burn off the calories, but for now, I’m full and happy.
After stuffing myself, I head back to my room like I promised Mom.I start sorting through my things while she moves around the house, humming as she tidies up.
Alright, what’s going to the bazaar?I pull out some clothes and lingerie I’ll wear while I’m here.The rest stay in the suitcase, those are the ones I’m selling.Oscar’s shoes, Jemima’s dresses, Baumer’s, and other designer pieces.Jessy already took Muse’s perfume and some of the smaller stuff, so what’s left are what he didn’t grab.
I take out a small velvet box with Mallory’s bracelet and slip it into my desk drawer.At least it’s a reminder that the celebrity world isn’t as shiny as it looks.Even that pop diva bailed on the ad deal and blamed everything on the production house.She didn’t even bother to speak up for her ‘friend’.
With a lazy sigh, I pull out a few dolls I’d kept in the closet.Ugh.They’re covered in dirt and dust.I’ll wash them later before wrapping them up as gifts for the kids at the hospital.I open my study desk drawer and find a bunch of random trinkets from when I was little.
My hand freezes when I spot an old CD game.I pick it up, wipe off the dust, and stare at the cover.My heart skips a beat.It’s a soccer game, the one I bought when I was a kid.God, that takes me back.
To anyone else, it’s just a game, but to me, it’s priceless.It reminds me of the first time I felt something close to love.Damn, that’s so cringe.
Still, that’s how it was.Laird Evans was the first boy who made me understand what it meant to care about someone, to worry about them, and to regret losing them.What a stupid, innocent time.
We went to the same elementary school and usually ended up in the same class.Then, on the first day of fourth grade, our teacher introduced a new kid, a transfer student from the UK named Adam.I wanted his attention so badly that I sold snacks at Little League games just to buy him the newest CD game release.
The funny part?Laird helped me.He always did.
* * *
“Oof.”I exhale, setting the box of used books on the ground, the ones we’re selling at the bazaar.My hand wipes the sweat off my forehead as I let out a slow breath.
Since around nine this morning, I’ve been helping Mom set up our stand for the fundraiser.The air’s still freezing cold, but we’re determined to raise money for the hospital’s Christmas celebration for the kids.This is our last shot at collecting donations for gifts and medical bills.
“I think that’s all, Mom,” I say, straightening my back.
She adjusts the little trinkets on the table covered in red tartan cloth.“Thanks, sweetheart,” she says with that familiar smile.
Mom isn’t young anymore, but there’s still a trace of beauty in her face.Her skin is porcelain pale, now dotted with dark spots that come with age.Wrinkles frame her mouth and eyes, and her blonde hair, mostly white now, is tied neatly in a bun.I picture myself looking like her one day.
I always wonder how she manages everything on her own while I’m in New York.She says it’s thanks to the kids and the foundation staff who keep her company.I say it’s because she’s strong and patient, tougher than anyone I know.I’ve been a terrible daughter, but she’s still the same: sweet, forgiving, endlessly kind.
“Hey, Mom.Mind if I take a walk to the park for a bit?”I ask.
“Sure, honey.Go get some air.People usually come around lunchtime anyway, so we’ve got time,” she says with a nod and a smile.
“Thanks.I won’t be long,” I murmur, walking off.
The park looks almost the same as it did years ago.Not much has changed.There are a few new things—taller garden lights, polished benches, frozen fountain statues.But the place still feels familiar.
I walk toward the baseball field, full of memories from when I was a kid.Back in elementary school, I came here almost every week to watch Laird play.Now, standing here, the place looks strange and empty.
