She has walked for miles alone, pushing her brothers in a broken wheelbarrow, because her mother once told her:
“If anything ever happens, go to the hospital. They will help you.”
“And your father—where is he?”
The girl looks at him.
“I don’t have a dad.”
“And your mother… is she still at home?”
A tear slides down her cheek as she nods.
“I wanted to go back for her,” she whispers. “But first I had to save the babies.”
No one in the room can find the words to speak.
That afternoon, the police go to the isolated address the girl manages to describe—and what they find inside that house changes everything.
The small farmhouse is almost invisible behind overgrown weeds and crooked fence posts. Paint peels from the siding. One window is cracked. A single red tricycle sits overturned in the dirt.
The officers knock. No response.
One of them gently pushes the door open, and a wave of heavy, stale air spills out.
Inside, the home is dim. The curtains are drawn. Dishes pile in the sink. A small wooden table is littered with opened formula cans and half-filled bottles. There are toys on the floor, blankets in a heap, and an old radio humming softly with static.
They find the mother in the bedroom.
She lies motionless on a mattress on the floor, one arm draped across an empty pillow. Her face is pale. Her chest barely rises. But she’s not dead.
One officer rushes to her, presses two fingers to her neck.
Continue reading…
