For years, I had driven Sofia to medical appointments, memorised her medication schedule, and slept beside her after surgeries while Vanessa attended parties and complained that motherhood had arrived at the wrong time in her life.
The hospital called Vanessa fifty-nine times.
I called sixty-eight.
Every text showed as delivered. Her voicemail became full.
One of my final messages said:
Sofia may not survive another hour. Please answer.
Vanessa never responded.
Sofia was not alone when she died.
I held her small hand while the medical team fought desperately to save her.
“Tell Mom I wasn’t frightened,” she whispered.
It was the final promise I ever made to a child.
At the graveside, Vanessa placed one hand over her chest and produced a single elegant tear.
“My phone was stolen.”
Daniel nodded far too quickly.
“Mine was stolen too.”
A bright airline tag still hung from his suitcase.
ST. LUCIA.
