The alarm buzzed at 5:12 AM, as if it knew Emma hated odd numbers. She dragged herself from bed, not because she was rested, but because life never waited for the tired.
Her small one-bedroom flat in the suburbs looked tired too — chipped paint, one working gas burner, and curtains that hadn't moved in months. But it was home, the best she could afford. A place where her silence was hers, where she didn't have to pretend, and where no one could see how deeply she sometimes broke.
Emma worked as a receptionist in a local hardware distribution office — a decent job, not glorious, but enough to keep the lights on and her stomach from aching. The pay wasn't consistent, the boss was a flirt with wandering eyes, and the customers didn't respect women with no rings on their fingers. But Emma showed up every day, early, with a forced smile and perfectly done hair — her silent war paint against a world that never truly saw her.
She didn't talk much at work. Most of her colleagues thought she was "cold" or "proud." Some whispered about her being heartless, too tough, too harsh. But none of them knew the war she fought every morning — just to show up. Just to survive.
In her drawer, tucked behind receipts and worn-out pens, was a folded piece of paper — a drawing of a little girl. Crayon and pencil. A smiling child with wide eyes and stick-figure arms, holding a flower. Emma didn't show it to anyone. But sometimes, when things got too heavy, she would open that drawer, stare at it, and whisper, "I'm trying… I'm still trying."
After work, she walked instead of taking a bus. Not because she enjoyed the walk, but because she needed to save. Rent was late. Again. And the caretaker had started leaving little notes on her door.
Her phone buzzed. Mama Juma — the neighbor who watched over her little girl in the evenings. She had already missed the usual pickup time. Again. Emma quickened her pace, the sunset painting gold over dusty rooftops.
There, under the cracked roof and the warm smile of Mama Juma, was her joy. Lia. Four years old. Energetic. Bright. The only one who called her "Mama" with pure love. Lia ran into her arms, nearly knocking the weariness out of her.
"Did you smile today?" Emma whispered, holding her tightly.
"Yes!" Lia chirped, "And I drawed a lion!"
Emma smiled back, tears threatening behind her eyes. In that moment, she wasn't the girl who was left. She was someone's world.
She carried her daughter home, step by tired step, beneath a sky that had seen too many of her cries.
Maybe love didn't come in the arms of a man.
Maybe it came in a tiny voice that said, "Mama, I missed you."
To be continued....