EMPTY HOME 💔

“The worst part of losing someone isn't the goodbye. It's waking up the next morning and remembering that they're still gone.”

6:30 a.m.

"Lilia, sweetheart, wake up. You'll be late for school."

For a moment, Lilia smiled.

She knew that voice.

She knew its softness, the way it always sounded a little sleepy in the morning, and the way her mother would open the curtains to let the sunlight into her room.

She pulled the blanket closer to her face.

"Five more minutes, Mom."

Silence.

Lilia opened her eyes.

Her bedroom door was closed.

Nobody was standing outside.

Nobody was going to come in.

She stared at the empty space beside her bed, and slowly, yesterday came rushing back.

Her smile disappeared.

"Oh..."

One little word.

One little sound.

And suddenly, the pain was there again.

Her mother was dead.

She wasn't coming back.

Lilia turned toward the wall and closed her eyes.

"Just five more minutes," she whispered to herself.

Not because she wanted to sleep.

But because she wasn't ready to face a world in which her mother no longer existed.

---

When Lilia finally went downstairs, her father was sitting at the kitchen table.

Two cups stood beside the coffee pot.

She looked at them for a long moment.

"Why are there two cups?"

Her father lifted his head.

"I made coffee without thinking."

Lilia swallowed.

Her mother used to drink coffee every morning.

She used to sit in that exact chair, complain about the weather, and ask Lilia about her plans for the day.

Now, the chair was empty.

And the coffee was getting cold.

"Can I have breakfast?" Lilia asked quietly.

"Of course."

Her father opened the refrigerator, looking for something to prepare.

Lilia watched him struggle with the simplest things.

He didn't know where her mother kept the plates.

He couldn't remember which bread Lilia liked.

He even burned the toast.

Normally, she would have laughed.

That morning, she couldn't.

"I'm sorry," her father said, placing the plate in front of her.

"It's okay."

She picked up a piece of toast.

It tasted like nothing.

After a few minutes, she put it down.

"You're not eating?" he asked.

"I'm not hungry."

"Lilia, you need to eat something."

"I'm not hungry, Dad!"

Her voice came out louder than she intended.

Her father fell silent.

She immediately regretted it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He sat down across from her.

For a moment, she thought he would tell her everything would be okay.

Instead, he lowered his eyes.

"I miss her too, Lilia."

She stared at him.

Then she looked away.

You miss her too?

Of course you do.

But you had years with her. You had mornings, conversations, memories I don't even know about.

And I still needed her.

I still need her.

Lilia stood up.

"I'm going to school."

---

At school, everything was exactly the same.

Students laughed in the corridors.

Teachers complained about unfinished homework.

Someone was running because the bell was about to ring.

The world had continued without asking her permission.

Lilia walked into her classroom and sat at her desk.

Her best friend, Emma, immediately noticed her swollen eyes.

"Lilia? Have you been crying?"

"No."

"Lilia..."

"I'm fine, Emma."

Emma pulled a chair closer.

"You don't have to pretend with me."

Those words almost broke her.

For a second, Lilia wanted to tell her everything.

She wanted to say that she couldn't sleep, that she couldn't eat, that she kept hearing her mother's voice in empty rooms.

She wanted to say that she was terrified of forgetting the smallest things about her.

The way she laughed.

The way she said her name.

The way she used to kiss her forehead before bedtime.

But instead, Lilia opened her notebook.

"Can we talk later? I don't want to cry here."

Emma gently squeezed her hand.

"Okay. I'm here."

Lilia nodded.

Then she looked down at her notebook.

The first line on the page was a sentence her mother had once helped her write:

My mother is the most important person in my life.

Lilia stared at it.

A tear fell onto the paper.

She quickly wiped it away.

But the ink had already begun to blur.

---

That afternoon, Lilia returned home and found her father's shoes beside the door.

"Dad?"

"I'm in the living room."

She walked toward his voice.

He was sitting on the sofa, holding an old photograph.

It showed him and her mother standing together on a beach, laughing at something outside the frame.

Lilia sat beside him.

"She looks happy," she whispered.

"She was."

"Was she happy with us?"

Her father turned toward her, surprised.

"What kind of question is that?"

"I don't know."

Lilia stared at the photograph.

"Sometimes I think about all the times I was angry with her. When I told her to leave me alone. When I said she was annoying."

Her voice began to tremble.

"What if she thought I didn't love her enough?"

Her father put the photograph down.

"Lilia, look at me."

She didn't move.

"Look at me, sweetheart."

Slowly, she raised her eyes.

"Your mother knew you loved her. She never doubted that. Not for a single second."

"But I didn't tell her enough!"

The words burst out of her.

"I should have hugged her more. I should have spent more time with her. I should have listened when she talked to me instead of looking at my phone!"

She covered her face.

"I wasted so much time, Dad."

He pulled her into his arms.

"You were fifteen. You were growing up. You were allowed to be a teenager."

"But I wanted more time!"

Her father closed his eyes.

"I know."

"I wanted her to see me grow up. I wanted to tell her about my first job, my future, everything!"

She clutched his shirt.

"I wanted her to be there."

Her father held her while they both cried.

For the first time since the funeral, Lilia realized that her father wasn't a stranger to her pain.

He was drowning in his own.

But even in his arms, she missed her mother.

Because there were some kinds of comfort that only one person in the world could give her.

And that person was gone.

---

That night, Lilia opened the wardrobe.

Her mother's blue dress was still hanging there.

She carefully took it out and held it against herself.

It was too big.

It smelled faintly of perfume.

And for a few seconds, she could almost imagine that her mother was standing behind her, smiling at the sight.

"Mom," she whispered.

She sat on the edge of the bed, holding the dress in her arms.

"Do you remember when you told me that I would understand everything when I grew up?"

She looked toward the ceiling.

"I don't want to understand this."

Her lips trembled.

"I don't want to become stronger because you're gone."

A tear slipped down her cheek.

"I just want to be your little girl again."

She pressed the dress against her heart.

"Everyone keeps telling me that time will make it easier."

She shook her head.

"But time is the thing that keeps taking me further away from you."

The room grew quiet.

Lilia reached for her notebook and began to write.

Dear Mom,

Today, I went to school.

Everyone was laughing, and I wondered how they could do that when you were gone.

I know the world doesn't stop for one person's sadness.

But I wish it had stopped for mine.

Dad burned the toast this morning. You would have laughed at him.

Emma asked if I was okay. I lied.

I keep thinking about all the things I wanted to tell you.

I got a good grade last week. I wanted to show you.

I found a song you would have loved.

I had a dream about our future.

And now, every little thing I want to share with you becomes another reminder that I can't.

I'm afraid, Mom.

I'm afraid I'll forget your voice.

I'm afraid that one day, I'll wake up and won't remember the exact way you used to say my name.

And I'm afraid that people will stop talking about you because they'll think it makes me sad.

But I want them to talk about you.

I want to hear your name.

I want to know that you existed outside my memories.

I want the world to remember that you were here.

That you were loved.

That you were my mother.

And that I am still your daughter.

Even if I can't hold your hand anymore.

I love you, Mom.

I hope you knew that.

I hope you always knew.

Your little girl,

Lilia.

She closed the notebook and placed it beneath her pillow.

Then she turned off the light.

In the darkness, she whispered one last thing.

"Goodnight, Mom."

For a moment, she waited.

She didn't know what she was expecting.

Perhaps an answer.

Perhaps a familiar voice.

Perhaps just the feeling that she wasn't alone.

But there was only silence.

And slowly, painfully, Lilia began to understand that some nights would be like this.

She would talk.

She would remember.

She would cry.

And she would have to learn how to fall asleep without hearing her mother's goodnight.

End of Chapter Two.

“I used to be afraid of the dark. Now, I'm afraid of the mornings, because every morning reminds me that I survived another night without you.”