The evening unfolds as all others—light fades and a quiet falls like weight. I slip beneath the blankets and open a book to read. From another room, my son clicks softly on his keyboard. From another room, my husband laughs at a television show. But from my daughter’s room there is no sound. She won’t be in to kiss me goodnight. Her new room, she says, is painted white. It’s not so far away. Still, I should let her know I left the light on, just in case. I type the letters swiftly then erase them, one by one.
Elizabeth Maria Naranjo is a writer in Tempe, Arizona. Her work has been widely published, nominated for numerous awards, and selected for Best Microfiction 2023.