CHAPTER 39: THE DAY SHE LEFT

MARIE I was seven years old the day my world began to crumble, though I didn't realize it then. The memory is vivid, sharp as glass—my small hand turning the key in the lock, pushing open the door to our apartment. "Mama?" I called out, dropping my school bag on the floor. The apartment was quiet, and the usual sounds of the TV or the clatter of dishes were absent. I could smell the faint remnants of breakfast lingering in the air—eggs and toast, nothing special; my mother usually had dinner simmering on the stove by now, filling the house with warmth and mouth-watering scents. Today, there was nothing. I found her in the bedroom. The door was ajar, and I pushed it open with the palm of my hand, the wood cool against my skin. Inside, the sight that greeted me was so strange it made me stop in my tracks. My mother was packing. She moved frantically around the room, pulling clothes from the closet and tossing them into a suitcase on the bed. The suitcase was old, frayed at the corne