The first thing I learned about being alone was that hunger makes time behave differently. Morning lasted forever, afternoon disappeared too quickly, and nighttime seemed to have no end at all. On the sixth day of my mother’s trip, I was sitting on the kitchen floor with my back against the cabinets, counting the crackers left in an open sleeve.
There were nine.
I counted them twice because I had learned not to trust myself when I was tired. I had eaten two that morning and three the night before. The remaining four were supposed to last until someone came home. My mother had promised she would be gone for thirty days, and she had left me twenty dollars on the counter as if that made the arrangement sensible.
At first, I had believed I could manage it. Mom had said I was old enough to be responsible for myself. She had packed her suitcases, checked her flight twice, and reminded me that she needed this vacation. She said I had a house, a refrigerator, a telephone, and neighbors nearby. Then she kissed my forehead and told me not to make problems while she was gone.
Six days earlier, I had watched her car disappear at the end of our street.
She had not called that night.
Or the next morning.
By the third day, I stopped expecting the phone to ring.
I kept a notebook instead. Every day, I wrote down what I ate, what I spent, whether Mom called, and anything strange I heard outside. I didn't know exactly why I was doing it. Maybe because my mother had a habit of telling me that things hadn't happened the way I remembered them. Writing things down made them feel solid.
On the sixth afternoon, I heard a knock.
I froze.
It came again, harder this time.
I didn't answer. I moved away from the front door and crouched behind the kitchen counter, pulling my knees against my chest. My heart was beating so loudly that I was afraid whoever stood outside might hear it.
Then I heard Sarah's voice.
“Maya? It's Sarah. Can you hear me?”
Sarah lived nearby. Mom had mentioned her before leaving, but only casually. She was supposed to be away too, at least according to what I had been told.
I stayed silent.
Sarah moved toward the side window. I could hear her phone ringing outside, followed by her voice changing into the careful tone adults used when something frightened them.
“Yes, I'm looking at her through the window,” she said. “She's inside. She's alone.”
I pressed my palms against my mouth.
Sarah looked through the glass again.
Our eyes met.
She lowered herself until she was kneeling outside the window, trying to make herself smaller.
“Maya, the sheriff is coming. You're not in trouble.”
Those words made my stomach twist.
Children who weren't in trouble didn't hide behind kitchen counters. They didn't sleep downstairs because they were afraid to be upstairs alone. They didn't count food before eating it.
I shook my head.
Sarah placed her hand against the glass.
“You don't have to open the door for me.”
I crawled closer.
“Don't call my mom,” I whispered.
She couldn't hear me.
I swallowed and raised my voice.
“Don't call my mom!”
This time Sarah heard.
Her expression changed immediately.
“Why?”
“She'll be mad.”
Sarah stared at me for a long moment.
Then she said, “Maya, adults can be angry. That doesn't give them permission to leave a child unsafe.”
A siren sounded somewhere down the road.
I ran to the front window.
A sheriff's vehicle turned onto our street. Another car followed behind it, and when I recognized the driver, my stomach dropped again. It was Mrs. Henderson, my next-door neighbor.
Mom had told me Mrs. Henderson was still in Texas.
Apparently, she had come home three days earlier.
Mrs. Henderson hurried toward Sarah.
“What's happening?”
Sarah pointed toward our house.
“She says Maya has been here alone.”
Mrs. Henderson's face drained of color.
“Alone?”
“She told me Valerie was in Hawaii.”
Mrs. Henderson shook her head.
“She told me Maya was at summer camp.”
I stared through the window.
Then Sarah said, “She told Derek that Maya was staying with us.”
I didn't know who was telling the truth anymore.
The deputy walked toward our front door. He was tall, with gray beginning at his temples, and his voice was calm when he knocked.
“Maya? My name is Deputy Collins. I'm with the sheriff's office.”
I backed away.
“I just need to know you're safe,” he continued. “I'm not going to force my way inside unless I have to.”
My hand moved toward the chair I kept beneath the doorknob at night.
Mom's voice filled my head.
Don't embarrass me.
Don't make a scene.
Don't ruin my trip.
I looked at the kitchen counter. The empty bread bag was still there. The peanut butter jar had been scraped almost clean. Beside my notebook sat sixty-four cents.
That was all I had left.
Something inside me finally stopped obeying my mother.
I moved the chair.
Unlocked the door.
And opened it only a few inches.
Deputy Collins immediately stepped backward instead of forward.
That surprised me.
He crouched until his face was closer to mine.
“Hi, Maya.”
I said nothing.
“Is your mother home?”
I shook my head.
“Is another adult here?”
Another shake.
“When did she leave?”
“Six days ago.”
Mrs. Henderson covered her mouth.
“When is she coming back?”
“Twenty-four days.”
Nobody spoke.
Deputy Collins looked at me carefully.
“Twenty-four more days?”
I nodded.
He didn't ask why I hadn't called someone. Maybe he could already see the answer around me.
“May I come inside?”
I hesitated.
“Will I get arrested?”
Sarah made a small sound behind him.
“No,” Deputy Collins said immediately.
“Will my mom?”
He paused.
“I don't know yet. My job right now is to make sure you're safe.”
I opened the door.
He stepped inside.
His eyes moved around the room.
First the chair beneath the doorknob.
Then the knife beside the couch.
Then my notebook.
Then the kitchen.
He opened the refrigerator and immediately smelled the spoiled milk.
He shut it again.
“Have you eaten today?”
“Bread.”
“What else?”
“Water.”
“When did you last eat something besides bread?”
I thought.
“Yesterday. Soup.”
He turned toward Sarah.
“Could you get her something to eat?”
Sarah nodded and hurried toward her car.
Mrs. Henderson remained near the doorway.
“Maya,” she said softly, “why didn't you come to me?”
“I thought you were in Texas.”
“I came home three days ago.”
Mom had never told me.
Deputy Collins noticed my notebook.
“Can I look at that?”
My whole body tightened.
“No.”
He put his hand down immediately.
“Okay.”
I stared at him.
Adults usually didn't stop when I said no.
He pointed gently toward the notebook.
“That belongs to you. I won't touch it unless you want me to.”
I picked it up.
“It says everything.”
“What does?”
“Everything that happened.”
I opened to the first page.
Day One.
Mom left. Called seven times. No answer.
Day Two.
Spent $19.36. Sixty-four cents left.
Day Three.
Heard something outside.
Day Four.
Mom still hasn't called.
Day Five.
I'm scared someone will find out I'm alone.
Day Six.
Sarah came twice.
Deputy Collins read quietly.
Then he reached a sentence that made him look up.
Mom told Derek I am at Chloe's lake house. Chloe isn't there.
“Does Derek know you're alone?”
“No.”
“Do you have his number?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Mom told me not to call him.”
“Why?”
“She said I'd ruin the trip.”
Sarah returned with a paper bag.
Inside was a sandwich, fruit, crackers, and juice.
I took three bites before realizing everyone was watching me.
I stopped.
“You can eat,” Sarah said.
“I'm saving some.”
“For later?”
I nodded.
Sarah's eyes filled with tears.
“There will be more later.”
I didn't believe her.
So I wrapped half the sandwich in a napkin and put it in the refrigerator.
Deputy Collins called child protective services.
The words scared me more than the sirens had.
“Are they going to take me away?” I asked.
“Someone is going to make sure you have food, somewhere safe to sleep, and an adult with you tonight.”
Tonight.
That was the first time the impossible thirty-day vacation became smaller.
I didn't have to survive thirty days anymore.
I only had to survive until tonight.
Click here to continue reading: PART 2: The Notebook I Kept Hidden Finally Explained Why I Was Afraid, but Then the Deputy Discovered My Mother Had Lied to Everyone
Six Days Into My Mother’s Vacation, the Neighbor Looked Through the Window and Realized the Child Inside Had Been Living Alone
Part 1 of 20
