Five Days Too Long
I looked around our kitchen in East Riverside, a forgotten pocket of a tired Midwestern city.
The stove was older than I was. One leg of the table was shorter than the rest, always wobbling. Dark stains climbed the walls from years of damp winters. On the counter sat the last can of powdered milk.
Empty.
My mom worked nights cleaning office buildings downtown. Her paycheck came on the fifth of every month.
It was still five days away.
Five days doesn’t sound like much. But when a baby is crying from hunger, five days feels like forever.
I glanced back at the phone and finally noticed the name at the top of the screen.
“Aunt R.”
My heart stopped.
That wasn’t right.
There should have been a six at the end of the number.
But I had typed a nine.
I hadn’t sent the message to my aunt.
I had sent it to a stranger.
An unknown number.
My brother cried louder, his tiny fists clenching as he pressed his mouth against my shoulder, searching for something I couldn’t give him.
I tried to delete the message.
Too late.
The check marks turned blue.
Someone had read it.
Someone had seen a desperate message from a child who didn’t know what else to do.
The phone vibrated.
