Sienna’s POV

I stood for a moment at the doorway, letting the midday light seep through the strands of my tangled hair. The room felt stifling

-like my

heart. How many days had I shut myself away like this? Everything seemed to spin so fast, yet strangely slow. Outside, the world kept turning. Meanwhile, I was left behind, frozen in ce. My breath felt heavy, but there was nothing to do except push myself to keep moving.

I stepped forward slowly. Each footfall felt like stepping on shards of ss. The wounds inside me hadn’t healed, but I had to hide them–especially when Noah was home. But this morning–or was it already afternoon?-I hadn’t expected him tough so freely. His voice rang out bright, clear, full of a joy that once used to shine for me. Now… it sounded like it belonged to someone else.

I walked through the hallway, my eyes brushing over the bwalls /bfilled with Noah’s drawings. I used to be the one sitting with him, drawing, coloring, helping him tape up his favorite dinosaur pictures. Now, just sitting beside him felt like a distant privilege 1 had to earn back. Was I a failed mother? Or just a broken person who no longer knew how to be anything?

Near the bookshelf, I spotted the little lion plushie I gave him on his third birthday. It was worn now, its fur faded, but it was still there like a small reminder that good days had once blived /bin this house. Days when Noah called me “Mommy” withughter, not with anger. Days before Emily was here. Days when I didn’t feel like I had already lost.

I stopped in front of the mirror hanging in the living room. My reflection looked pale. Puffy eyes, dark circles, messy hair. If it hadn’t been for Noah’s voice echoing from the kitchen, I might’ve gone back to my room, crawled under the covers, and pretended the outside world didn’t exist. But hisughter–it was like a hook pulling me back to the surface, even if I was still gasping. I wasn’t ready to face him. But bI /bknew I had to.

My hand moved instinctively to fix my hair. I wiped the corners of my eyes with the back of my hand. I had to look bcalm/b. I had to be strong. I had to be his mother. I wasn’t a guest in this house, not an intruder. I… I was his mom. Even if my voice no longer held weight. Even if my hugs were now met with fear. I was still his mother. And I would fight for that. Slowly. Even if it meant stumbling.

As I reached the threshold of the kitchen, bthe /bscene before me made bme /bstop in my tracks.

Emily and Noah.

The two of them stood at the kitchen counter. Noah was wearing an apron with a big dinosaur on it, his face lit up with excitement. His hands were covered in cookie dough, and Emily, beside him, helped scoop dough onto the tray,ughing every time Noah made a sillyment.

“I want lots of chocte chips!” Noah shouted, dumping a handful into the mix–way too much–but Emily justughed.

“If we put too much, they’ll all melt,” she said gently. “But that’s okay, let’s try it, sweetie.”

I was

I stood thereb, /bunmoving. Neither of them noticed me. The kitchen that once felt like mine now felt like a foreign ce, blike /bIv peeking into someone else’s life–one that had no space left for me.

Quietly, I walked to the fridge. I opened it and grabbed a cold bottle of water. As I closed the fridge and unscrewed the capb, /bNoah’s voice startled me.

“Mommy,”

,” he said without turning around, his tone t, “I’m really happy today. I made cookies with Auntie Emily. Mommy’s not fun like Auntie Emily.”

The words were simple. Maybe to him, they were just honest. Innocent, from the mouth of a child.

But to a bmother/b… they were ba /bspear straight to the chest.

I took a silent sip of water, trying to drown the emotions that surged inside me. My hand trembled slightly, but I kept my face neutral. I didn’t respond. What was the point? Any answer would only open more wounds.

‘Mommy’s always busy. Writing or sleeping. Auntie Emily’s funny. And she can bake btoo/bb,/b” Noah continued cheerfully.

Emily finally turned and noticed me. Her eyes widened briefly, as if she felt guilty for getting lost in the moment.

“Oh… Sienna, you’re up?” she bsaid /bgently.

I nodded. “Just thirsty,” I replied shortly, then took another sip of water.

The spat clinked against the bowl again. Emily didn’t say anything else. Noah focused on his cookies, bbut /bhis earlier bwords/b. kept echoing in my head.

I knew I could neverpete with Emily–not like this. She arrived as the perfect woman: beautiful, warm, easy to love. Someone who, somehowb, /bhad nestled her way binto /bmy child’s heart in a matter of weeks.

But I wouldn’t beg.

Not anymore.

I ced the bottle in the sink and turned away. I couldn’t watch them much longer. I couldn’t bbear /bto see my ce slowly erased, reced, forgotten–even by Noah.

“Mommy, don’t you bwanna /btry the cookiester?” Noah called behind me, still not turning.

I paused in the doorway.

“Maybeter,” I said softly, and walked away–leaving theirughter echoing behind me. Laughter that no longer belonged to ollime. /li/ol

I returned to my room, shutting the door gently behind meb, /bas if afraid to disturb the joy still unfolding in the kitchen. Once the door closed, silence wrapped around bme /bagain. A silence that suffocated instead of soothed.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my desk bwhere /bmyptop still glowed. The screen disyed the manuscript I’d been working onst night before falling asleep. The title remained the same.

bI /bexhaled slowly, leaning back against the headboard. Noah’s words reyed in my mind, looping like a quiet, persistent echo.

When did I be a stranger in my own child’s life?