It takes almost a year before you realize your mother is not coming back – not fully – not ever.

The mirror is fogged from the shower you took an hour ago, your reflection blurred at the edges, half-formed.

Your mother’s towel still hangs on the rack. Damp. Unused.

Beginning to collect dust.

You spit, rinse, set your toothbrush back in its cup. The house is quiet except for the hum of the fridge, the soft tick of the clock in the kitchen, your own breathing.

Down the hall, her bedroom door is closed. It has been all day.

You press your ear against her door. Listen. Nothing.

You knock, once.

Nothing.

You don’t knock again.

Instead, you go to the kitchen.

There are dishes in the sink. The mail from three days ago sits unopened. A bill with red letters. A letter from school is the only one you touch – just enough to toss it into the trash bin.

You pour yourself a glass of water, drink half of it, then leave it beside the sink.

You turn off the kitchen light and breathe in the darkness.

I watch you stiffen as you pass the garage door on the way to bed. I watch the way you hesitate at the bottom of the stairs, wondering if you even have the strength, before finally climbing them one step at a time.

I watch you pause at her door again.

I watch your raised hand never knock.

You go to your room instead.

And turn off the light.

And feel your way to the bed.

And crawl under the blanket.

And your chest heaves.

And your throat tightens.

And your eyes burn.

And your heart screams.

But you do not cry.

Because there is no one left to hear you.