Three weeks had passed, yet time seemed frozen, as if my life had stopped moving forward while the rest of the world continued without me.
My name is Erin, and at forty, I was discovering the oppressive silence of a house when the light that flooded it suddenly vanished. My days blurred together, punctuated only by sleepless nights and long, empty mornings. I moved around my home on autopilot, doing the bare minimum to appear functional, while my heart remained elsewhere.
My daughter Lily was ten years old. Bright, curious ,
and infinitely kind, she had a gift for making even the most ordinary moments precious. One rainy Saturday morning, everything changed for our family, giving way to an unbearable silence.
I rarely talk about what happened. Even today, it seems unreal to me. But to understand what followed, you have to understand the state I was in. I was surviving, I wasn’t living. I was breathing, but barely.
The house seemed strange without her. Too quiet. Too tidy. Too empty.
Ezoic.
Lily’s room remained untouched. Her art supplies were still scattered across her desk, pencils rolling near a half-finished sunflower she had never completed. Her pink lamp remained plugged in, casting a soft glow at night, as if waiting for her return. I sometimes stopped in the hallway, outside her door, almost expecting her to jump out and frighten me as she used to.
She never did.
My husband, Daniel, had returned home a few days earlier. He moved slowly and cautiously, as if the slightest sudden movement might destroy what little strength he had left. He barely spoke. When he did, his voice was distant and hollow. Nights were the hardest for him, and sleep rarely came without a struggle.
Ezoic.
Most mornings, I woke up before the sun. I sat at the kitchen table, my hands gripping a long-cold mug, and gazed at the garden through the fogged window. Written on the mug in colored marker was the words: « World’s Best Mom. » Lily had given it to me the previous spring.
That morning, I thought I’d take a sip. Just one. Something normal.
My hands didn’t move.
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