Parking far from the entrance of the minimart, I sit there with my hands on the wheel, still picturing Milo’s face when Camille ordered him upstairs. The way his little body leaned toward me like he thought he could fight his way past her.
Running a hand down my face, I stifle the scream dying to get out and make myself move, stepping out with my hood pulled low and my sunglasses on, hiding my red-rimmed eyes. Glancing around the lot to make sure I’m not being followed, I hurry inside, grab the nearest basket, and head for the health and beauty aisle, throwing in everything I need.
Tiny shampoo. Tiny conditioner. A tube of toothpaste that looks like it belongs in a hotel bathroom.
I line things up in the basket one by one, doing the math in my head as if it will make it hurt less when I pay.
A bar of soap. A pack of wipes. Deodorant I don’t even like, but it’s cheap. Everything small. Everything meant to last just long enough to get me to the next day.
This is my life, reduced to palm-sized versions of necessities.
As I turn the corner, a prickle creeps up the back of my neck. It’s the same feeling I had driving over here: that sense that I wasn’t alone even when the road looked empty. Like something tailed me the whole way and tucked itself behind me the second I stopped.
My pace eases without meaning to, and I listen for footsteps that might line up with mine.
Maybe it’s paranoia. Or maybe paranoia is the reason I’m still alive.
People from my old life didn’t just forget about me. I know they’re still out there wanting to punish me for what happened. One person recognizing me, one mistake, and I’m not the only one who pays for it.
They won’t stop with me. They’ll go after Milo too because nothing cuts deeper than your child.
I won’t let anything happen to my baby. I’ll die first.
My fingers tighten around the basket until it digs into my skin. Milo’s face flashes through my mind, the way it always does when panic starts to claw its way up my throat. He used to look at me like I was his whole world, like everything made sense as long as I was there. I miss that so much.
When I was sixteen and staring at a positive pregnancy test, I thought my life was over. But then they placed him in my arms, small and warm and real, and everything in me locked into place.
That was it. One mistake with a guy at a party, one night I barely remember, and suddenly my whole life had a single purpose.
After that, everything was for him. I took whatever job would pay, grabbed whatever hours they’d give me, learned how to make groceries last past the point they were supposed to, and held him the way he liked so he wouldn’t cry and wake Mom up—because if she did, I paid for it for days.
When my father was around, he was drunk enough not to care, which somehow felt worse than if he’d been cruel. Neither of them spent time with Milo or looked at him like he mattered. Camille didn’t either, not unless she could use him as a weapon. A way to remind me what a terrible mother I was.
I used to lie awake at night imagining an escape. Just me and my baby, somewhere quiet and clean, somewhere no one yelled or drank or told me I was nothing.
I pictured a small place with sunlight and a safe neighborhood where Milo could play and make friends. Instead, he’s with my sister and I’m standing in a grocery store aisle trying not to come apart.
The thought that destroys me most isn’t Camille keeping him from me. It’s Milo believing I left because I didn’t want him. That maybe he thinks his mother chose something else over him, the way my own mother always made me feel chosen last.
My vision blurs again, and a cry slips out. I sniffle, ducking my head as a woman passing by slows and looks at me with concern.
“Are you okay, honey?”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, the words automatic. “Just allergies.”
“Oh, yeah. I get those bad too.” She reaches for the large bottle of shampoo. “You take care now.”
“Thanks. You too.”
I make a beeline for the register, the basket biting into my fingers, while all I want to do is get back in my car. The cashier barely looks up as she rings everything up. I hand over cash, grab the bag the second it’s pushed toward me, and hurry out.
As soon as I’m inside my car, the doors lock with a click, but that won’t keep me safe. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop looking over my shoulder.
I sit there gripping the steering wheel until my hands stop shaking.
Get a grip. Jumping at every sound is how you get noticed.
My focus needs to be on finding another job. If I want my son back, that’s what I need to do.
