The last time Alexa saw her mother, she was five years old.
It was a gray, windy afternoon — the kind of day when even the trees seemed to whisper that something terrible was about to happen.
Her mother stood on Grandma Rose’s porch, her hands trembling as she zipped up Alexa’s little pink coat. “You’ll be safe here, baby,” she whispered, avoiding her daughter’s eyes.
Alexa, clutching her stuffed bunny, didn’t understand what was happening — only that her mother’s voice sounded different, thinner, like she was talking from far away.
“Mommy, are we coming back home after this?” she asked, her voice wobbling.
Her mother pressed a kiss to her forehead but didn’t answer. She turned, tears streaking down her cheeks, and walked toward a car where a man was waiting — the man who, Alexa would later learn, didn’t want children.
The engine started. The car door slammed.
And then she was gone.
Grandma Rose scooped Alexa into her arms before she could chase after the car. “Hush, sweetheart,” Grandma murmured. “You’ve got me now.”
From that day on, Grandma Rose became her entire world — mother, father, best friend, and safe place all in one.
A Childhood Built on Love and Ghosts
Alexa grew up in a small town where everyone knew everyone’s story. People whispered about her mother — “that poor child’s mama ran off to start a new life” — but Grandma Rose never spoke ill of her. She’d only say, “Some people run from love, Lexie. But we? We stay and make it grow.”
And Grandma did.
She braided Alexa’s hair before school every morning, always finishing with a pink ribbon. She packed homemade lunches, clapped the loudest at school plays, and hugged Alexa so tightly it almost made up for the missing years.
Almost.
Because no matter how loved she was, Alexa still kept a small shoebox under her bed — filled with crayon drawings of her mother.
Pictures of a woman holding hands with a smiling little girl.
A house by the sea.
A family that never existed.
Every birthday, Alexa would take that box out, trace her tiny handprints on the paper, and whisper, “Maybe next year.”
