Brenda sat at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee growing cold beside her, a blank sheet of paper in front of her. The house was quiet. Michael was at school. Marcus had gone to the park to play football with his friends. Her husband, Derrick, had left for his shift an hour ago. She had the whole morning to herself, and she didn't know what to do with it.
She'd been thinking about the kids all week. Not just thinking—worrying. The way she'd been worrying since the first time Malcolm called her from a payphone, his voice tight, his words careful. The way she'd been worrying since she'd shown up at the school and he'd told her he couldn't talk.
The way she'd been worrying since the night of the dance.
---
She closed her eyes and let herself remember.
Maya in her pink dress, her hair braided, her face lit up when she saw Brenda at the door. The way she'd clung to Brenda all night, her small hand tight around Brenda's fingers, her laugh coming easier as the evening went on. But there had been something underneath it—something that looked like fear, or maybe grief, pressed down so deep it only showed in the quiet moments.
And Malcolm. She'd seen him at the school, standing in the shadows, watching. He'd looked older than his years. He'd grown taller since the last time she'd seen him before the dance—his shoulders broadening, his frame taking on the lean, athletic build of a boy who was becoming someone she barely recognized. His face had sharpened, his jawline stronger, his cheekbones more defined. He had his mother's eyes—that deep brown, that way of looking at you like he was trying to memorize your face—but the rest of him was becoming someone new. Someone who carried the weight of the world and didn't let it show.
He'd looked at her with eyes that had seen too much, and she'd wanted to pull him close and tell him that he was still a child, that he didn't have to carry everything alone. But she hadn't. She'd let him go, and she'd watched him walk up the steps to a house that didn't want him, and she'd driven home with her hands tight on the wheel and her heart heavy in her chest.
And Tiana. She'd been standing in the doorway of the gymnasium, her arms crossed, her face unreadable. Brenda had wanted to go to her, to pull her close, to tell her that she was doing a good job too. But Tiana had stayed back, watching, and Brenda had known that pushing would only make her pull away.
She's quieter now, Brenda thought. They all are.
She opened her eyes. The paper was still blank.
---
She heard the front door open. Michael's voice called out, "Ma? You home?"
"In the kitchen."
He appeared in the doorway, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his face open and young. He dropped the bag on the floor and sat across from her, his eyes going to the blank paper.
"What you doin'?"
"Thinking."
He nodded, like that made sense. He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, "You think about them too?"
She didn't have to ask who he meant. "All the time."
"Me too." He picked up the pen on the table, turned it over in his hands. "I asked Marcus yesterday if he thought Malcolm was okay. He said he didn't know."
Brenda reached across the table and took the pen from him. "Marcus don't know any more than we do."
"That's what I'm scared of." Michael looked at her, and for a moment, he looked older than his years. "What if they're not okay? What if somethin's really wrong and we can't do anythin'?"
Brenda's chest tightened. She thought about the letters she'd sent through the school, the brief notes she'd written, the way she'd signed them thinking of you because she didn't know what else to say. She thought about the calls Malcolm used to make, the way they'd stopped, the silence that had filled the space where his voice used to be.
"We're doin' what we can," she said. "We're lettin' them know we're here. That's somethin'."
Michael didn't look convinced. He pushed back from the table, stood up, walked to the door. He stopped with his hand on the frame.
"You think he's gonna be okay?" he asked, without turning around. "Malcolm? Tiana? Maya?"
Brenda looked at the blank paper. She thought about Malcolm's face at the dance, the way he'd stood in the shadows, watching his sister dance with someone else's arms around her. The sharpness of his jaw, the set of his mouth, the way his hands had hung at his sides like he was ready to catch something if it fell. He was becoming a young man, tall and lean, the kind of boy who turned heads without meaning to. But his eyes—those eyes that were still his mother's—held something that no thirteen-year-old should carry.
She thought about Tiana in the doorway, her arms crossed, her face closed. She thought about Maya, clinging to Brenda's hand like she was afraid to let go.
"I think they're gonna make it," she said. "I gotta believe that."
Michael nodded. He left the room, and Brenda heard his footsteps on the stairs, the sound of his door closing, the quiet that settled after.
---
I can't keep doing this. I can't keep doing this. I need you to know that I'm trying.
The words came to her, quiet, from somewhere she didn't recognize. She picked up the pen and held it over the paper.
Dear Malcolm, Tiana, and Maya,
She stopped. The words were too small. They didn't say what she wanted to say—that she thought about them every day, that she woke up in the morning and wondered if they'd eaten breakfast, that she lay awake at night and wondered if they were scared. She couldn't put those things in a letter that might be read by someone else.
She started again.
I hope this letter finds you well. I've been thinking about you. Michael asks about you every day. Marcus too.
She paused. The words felt thin, but they were true. She kept writing.
I know you can't call. I know you can't write back. That's okay. I just want you to know that we're here. When you need us, we're here.
She thought about the last time she'd seen them. The dance. The way Malcolm had stood in the shadows, watching. The way his shoulders had broadened since the last time she'd seen him, the way his face had grown into something handsome and hard all at once. He had his mother's eyes, but his father's jaw—though she didn't like to think about that. He was growing into someone strong, someone who could carry the weight he'd been given. But she wished he didn't have to.
She thought about Tiana, quieter now, her face closed. She thought about Maya, her small hand tight around Brenda's fingers.
You're doing a good job, she'd told Malcolm. You're doing a good job with those girls.
He'd squeezed her hand, but he hadn't said anything. He'd looked at her with eyes that had seen too much, and she'd wanted to pull him close and tell him that he was still a child, that he didn't have to carry everything alone. But she hadn't. She'd let him go.
---
She set the pen down. The letter was half-finished, the words waiting for her to find the right ones. She didn't know if she would send it. She didn't know if it would even reach them. But she had to do something. She had to try.
She thought about the social worker. Mrs. Albright, the one who'd brought the kids to Richard's house, who'd promised to check in, who'd disappeared after the papers were signed. Brenda had her number somewhere. She'd kept it, the way she kept everything that might matter.
I'm gonna call her, she thought. Today. I'm gonna call and tell her I'm worried. Tell her those kids ain't okay.
She picked up the pen again.
I'm gonna check on you. Through the school, through the social worker. I'm not gonna let you disappear.
She stopped. The words were bolder than she'd meant them to be. But they were true. She folded the letter, tucked it into an envelope, and wrote the school's address on the front. She'd drop it in the mailbox on her way to the store.
She stood up. The coffee was cold, the kitchen quiet, the house settled around her like something waiting.
She thought about the kids. Malcolm with his serious eyes, his sharp jaw, his hands always reaching for his sisters. Tiana with her quiet voice, her sketchbook, her face that held too much. Maya with her laugh, her questions, her small hand reaching for Brenda's.
They're gonna make it, she told herself. They got each other. And they got me.
She picked up her purse, her keys, the letter. She walked to the front door, and she made a mental note: Call Mrs. Albright. Today. Don't let it slide.
She stepped outside. The air was cold, the sky gray, the street quiet. She walked to the mailbox at the corner, dropped the letter in, and stood there for a moment, her hand on the cold metal.
I'm gonna find out what's going on in that house, she thought. I'm gonna make sure they're safe. I'm gonna be there when they need me.
She turned and walked back to the house, and she held onto that promise like something precious.