Chapter 19 - Mia Was Afraid of Being Forgotten
For almost a year, Mia refused to let her watch battery fall below fifty percent.
She checked constantly.
“Seventy-two.”
“Sixty-eight.”
“Fifty-nine.”
At forty-nine:
“Mommy, charger.”
We bought two chargers.
Then therapist suggested:
“Do not make battery the only safety plan.”
So we practiced.
Address memorization.
Neighbors.
School counselor.
Andrew’s number.
My number.
Evelyn’s.
A paper card in backpack.
Mia stopped sleeping with all lights on gradually.
First four.
Then hall light.
Then moon lamp.
By eight, only moon lamp.
By ten, darkness except nightlight if she wanted.
She kept the drawing from that day.
Tiny house.
Yellow lines.
Purple person.
At nine, she added another figure outside.
Me.
Then Andrew.
Then Great-Grandma Evelyn.
She laughed when I noticed.
“You were late.”
“Excuse me?”
“You weren’t in first drawing.”
“Rude.”
“You were on airplane.”
Fair.
We learned to talk about abandonment without making it identity.
She was not “the child who got left.”
She was Mia.
Loved astronomy.
Hated mashed potatoes.
Could whistle painfully loud.
Had terrible handwriting.
May you like
One thing among thousands had happened to her.
It was not her biography.
