Lisa stared at her phone and kept on reading the message over and over again.
As if it had every right to show up in her room, on her bed, in the one place she thought she could breathe, at least they could have just kept the drama off school.
You really think its over, we just got started?.
The baby shifted beside her.
A tiny sound escaped her lips before she settled again.
Lisa looked from the screen to her daughter and back to the screen.
For a second, she almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Just because it felt ridiculous.
Twelve hours ago she had convinced herself the worst part was walking through those school gates.
Apparently life had other plans.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
She typed.
who is this?
The three dots appeared almost immediately.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Lisa hated those three dots.
Whoever was texting her was sitting somewhere, thinking about what to say next.
Thinking about her.
That made her skin crawl.
The reply finally came.
You'll find out.
That was it.
Nothing else.
No name.
No clue.
Just enough to make her uneasy.
Lisa dropped the phone onto the mattress and rubbed both hands over her face.
She was tired.
Not sleepy tired.
The kind of tired that settled somewhere behind the ribs.
The kind that made everything feel heavier than it should.
Outside her bedroom, voices rose.
Her parents.
Again.
At first it sounded like background noise.
Then her father's voice sharpened.
Then her mother's.
Then both.
The argument moved through the house the way storms moved through neighborhoods.
Room to room.
Window to window.
Never staying still.
Lisa closed her eyes.
Not tonight.
Please.
A cupboard slammed.
The baby stirred.
Lisa immediately leaned over and rested a hand on her stomach.
"It's okay," she whispered.
The baby relaxed.
The arguing didn't.
For a moment Lisa sat there listening.
Not because she wanted to.
Because she couldn't help it.
People said children got used to their parents fighting.
Lisa wasn't sure that was true.
You just got better at pretending it didn't bother you.
That was different.
Another crash echoed through the house.
This time the baby woke up.
Her face scrunched.
A warning.
Then came the cry.
Small at first.
Then louder.
Lisa picked her up before it could get worse.
"Hey, hey, hey."
She rocked her gently.
The baby buried her face against Lisa's shoulder.
The crying slowed.
Then stopped.
Just like that.
Lisa rested her cheek against the baby's head.
She smelled like baby powder and milk.
Simple things.
Comforting things.
Things that didn't ask questions.
The phone buzzed again.
Lisa froze.
Her stomach tightened.
Slowly, she looked down.
A different notification.
Lizzy.
She exhaled.
Only then did she realize she'd been holding her breath.
How are you holding up?
Lisa stared at the message.
The honest answer?
Not great.
She typed.
Still alive.
Three seconds later came the reply.
'That's not what I asked'.
Despite herself, Lisa smiled.
Just a little.
Lizzy always did that.
Refused to let her hide behind jokes.
Lisa typed.
Today was horrible.
She deleted it.
Typed again
'I've had better days'
Sent.
The response came immediately.
Translation: horrible.
Lisa snorted.
The baby blinked up at her.
"Don't judge me," Lisa told her.
The baby yawned.
"Exactly."
Another text arrived
'you went back, that's what matters'
Lisa read the message three times.
Then locked her phone.
Because if she looked at it any longer she might cry.
And she was exhausted from crying.
The next morning started at 5:47 a.m.
Not because Lisa set an alarm.
Because the baby decided everyone should be awake.
Lisa groaned and reached for her phone.
The room was still dark.
For a second she couldn't remember where she was.
Then reality came back all at once.
School.
The message.
The whispers.
Everything.
"Good morning to you too," she lazily replied her mum.
The baby kicked happily.
Completely unbothered by the fact that the sun wasn't even up yet.
Within an hour Lisa had changed a diaper, warmed a bottle, searched for a missing sock, found the missing sock under the bed, and nearly burned her toast because she forgot she was making it.
Motherhood, she had learned, was mostly solving tiny emergencies nobody warned you about.
By the time she finished getting dressed, she already felt like she'd lived through half a day.
Her reflection in the mirror looked tired.
Not dramatic movie-star tired.
Real tired.
The kind that sat under your eyes.
The kind concealer couldn't fix.
She adjusted her collar.
Stared at herself.
Then looked away,gave her baby a peck while being held by her mum.
Some mornings confidence was too expensive.
Today wasn't a confidence day.
Today was a survive-the-day day.
The hallway buzzed with conversation as always when she arrived.
The sound hit before she even reached the building.
Laughter.
Lockers slamming.
People calling out to friends.
Normal school things.
Things that used to feel normal to her too.
Now they felt like something she was watching through glass.
She kept walking.
Head up.
Not too high.
Not too low.
A balance she'd spent all night practicing.
The whispers started almost immediately.
Lisa heard them.
Pretended she didn't.
That was becoming a skill.
Then somebody slammed into her shoulder.
Hard.
The impact knocked her sideways.
Her books slipped from her arms.
Papers scattered across the floor.
A notebook slid several feet away.
The laughter came right on schedule.
Lisa stared at the mess.
For one stupid second, she wanted to sit down right there in the hallway and cry.
Not because of the books.
Because she was tired.
Because every single thing felt harder than it should.
Instead she crouched and started gathering her papers.
One.
Two.
Three.
A shadow fell across the floor.
She assumed it was another person stopping to watch.
Then someone picked up her notebook.
Lisa looked up.
Adrian.
Of course.
For some reason her heart did something strange.
Not a flutter.
Not butterflies.
More like surprise.
Like missing a step on the stairs.
He held out the notebook.
"You're making this a habit."
Lisa blinked.
"What?"
"Meeting me in hallways."
She stared at him.
Then laughed.
A real laugh.
Unexpected and quick.
The sound seemed to surprise both of them.
Adrian looked almost amused.
Almost.
"You should probably stop doing that," he said.
"What?"
"Laughing."
Her eyebrows lifted.
"Why?"
A tiny shrug.
"People might think you're happy."
For the first time, she noticed it.
The dry humor.
The straight face.
The fact that he delivered jokes like bad news.
And somehow it worked.
Lisa shook her head.
"You're weird."
"That's disappointing."
"Why?"
"Most people call me intimidating first."
And despite everything waiting for her that day, Lisa found herself smiling again.