Marissa let out a deep sigh and, taking her doll, went to play in the next room. Mommy was sleeping—she shouldn’t be woken up. She gets very tired at work, Marissa explained to her stuffed animal friend.
The doll blinked its big blue eyes as if agreeing with its little owner. But the doll couldn’t understand that five-year-old Marissa, raised by her single mother Olivia, hadn’t gone to preschool for two days because there was no one to take her. Olivia and her daughter lived alone after the divorce from her husband.
Olivia worked as a cashier in a grocery store. It was a 24-hour supermarket, so her shifts alternated between day and night. Sometimes she even had to work overnight. During those times, the neighbors—Uncle Brian and Aunt Irene—took care of Marissa.
They fed the little girl and made sure she went to bed on time. Olivia would return from her night shift, eat breakfast, shower, and then go to sleep. That day, too, she went to sleep—but this time, she never woke up.
Marissa was actually happy she didn’t have to go to preschool. She curled up next to her mommy and quietly fell asleep too. Later, she woke up, shook her mom’s shoulder, but when there was no response, she headed to the fridge.
She took a sausage and warmed it in the microwave all by herself. After that, she played with her doll and watched some TV.
But mommy was still asleep. Evening came, and still no change. Marissa decided it was time to go to bed again.
The next day, Olivia still hadn’t woken up. The fridge was empty, except for a dried piece of bread in the basket. Marissa didn’t yet know how to use the stove to boil water for tea.
She was very hungry, but her mommy wouldn’t wake up, no matter what she tried. She shook her, splashed her with water—but nothing worked.
Marissa cried a little, then curled up next to her mother again and fell asleep. A ray of sunlight and the rumbling of her stomach woke her up. She sat on the couch, looked at her still-sleeping mom, and sniffed the air.
It didn’t smell like her mom’s perfume. There was a sweetish, strange odor. One she had never smelled from anyone before. She touched her mother’s hand and was shocked by how cold it was.
And her palm—once rosy and soft—was now stiff and bluish. “Uncle Brian, help me. Mommy’s been sleeping for three days, and she smells funny.” The little girl knocked on the neighbor’s door.
Despite it being 6 A.M., the sleepy neighbor, alerted by the little girl’s visit, stepped into their apartment—AND FROZE.
Uncle Brian stood at the door like a statue, his hand still on the knob, his eyes fixed on Olivia’s lifeless body lying crooked on the couch, her skin pale and stretched, her lips darkening, and a smell he instantly recognized rising thick in the air—he didn’t need to check her pulse, he knew—Olivia was dead, and had been for days, “Jesus Christ…” he muttered, covering his nose, then turning toward Marissa, who stood barefoot in her oversized pajamas, hair tangled, face crusted with sleep and confusion, clutching her doll with eyes too innocent for what they had witnessed, “Where have you been sleeping, baby?” Brian asked gently, his voice already cracking, and she pointed to the same couch, “Next to Mommy… I think she’s really, really tired,” she whispered, not understanding the finality of death, not yet, and when Aunt Irene ran in moments later, still tying her wrapper, her scream pierced through the entire building like a siren, neighbors rushed in, some gasping, others crossing themselves, the landlord dialing the police, and Marissa stood there silently, blinking as if trying to find the right expression to wear, the one that matched everyone else’s panic, but all she felt was… emptiness, like something was missing and it hadn’t yet occurred to her what it truly meant—until a body bag arrived and two men in gloves gently zipped her mother inside like packing away a blanket, “Where are you taking Mommy?” she asked, but no one answered directly, just vague promises and pitying looks, and when Marissa tried to climb into the ambulance with the body, a social worker named Miss Helen gently pulled her back and said, “Sweetheart, we’re going to take care of you, okay? Just come with me,” and that’s when Marissa began to scream—a raw, primal cry that even shook the officers, “I WANT MY MOMMY! I WANT MY MOMMY! SHE’S NOT DEAD! SHE’S JUST SLEEPING! PLEASE DON’T TAKE HER AWAY!”—and Brian had to carry her into the neighbor’s house, her legs kicking, fists pounding his chest, the doll falling to the floor with a soft thud, and as they closed the door behind them, Aunt Irene picked it up, dusted it off, and hugged it like a substitute for the warmth no one could give the little girl, the funeral was small—Olivia had no family nearby, and her ex-husband, Marissa’s father, was “unreachable,” his number long changed, his interest long gone, so the neighbors chipped in for a simple wooden casket and a short prayer, and as Olivia was lowered into the ground, Marissa asked if she could bring her mommy breakfast tomorrow morning so she could finally wake up, and Miss Helen simply hugged her tighter, holding back her own tears, knowing that tomorrow she’d have to tell the little girl what heaven meant and why sometimes people never come back, even when they promised they would, and that night, Marissa sat on the edge of Uncle Brian’s couch, eyes staring out the window, clutching her doll like a lifeline, whispering softly, “I’ll wait, Mommy… I’ll wait for you to come back.
The sirens were the first to break the silence—the kind that make neighbors peep through their curtains with trembling hands and hearts, the kind that never mean anything good, and as the paramedics entered Olivia’s apartment, they moved with a silence that was louder than any scream, confirming what Uncle Brian already knew but couldn’t bring himself to say out loud—Olivia was gone, her body too still, too cold, too far past saving, and as they gently lifted her onto a stretcher covered in a white sheet, little Marissa clutched her doll tighter, her tiny frame shaking, confused, her big eyes darting between the people in uniforms and the pale, covered shape that used to be Mommy, “Is she going to the hospital?” she whispered, and Uncle Brian’s throat closed, unable to lie, unable to speak, he just knelt down, pulled her into his arms and whispered, “She’s with the angels now, sweetheart,” and that was the moment Marissa broke, her sobs coming in waves as if her little heart couldn’t understand how something so big could be happening to someone so small, Aunt Irene rushed in then, wrapping the both of them in her arms, rocking back and forth while whispering prayers through her own tears, and the neighbors began gathering outside, whispering, wondering, regretting—because maybe someone should have noticed sooner, maybe someone should have asked why the curtains were closed for days, why the little girl hadn’t been outside, maybe someone should have cared just a little more, and as the authorities documented everything and social services arrived, a quiet discussion happened in the corner about what to do with the child, but Aunt Irene didn’t hesitate—she stood up, her voice firm for the first time that morning, “She’s not going anywhere—Marissa stays with us,” and that was that, days passed in a blur of funerals, forms, and grief, and though Marissa still sometimes wandered to the edge of her bed in the middle of the night and asked if Mommy was home yet, she slowly started eating again, playing again, living again, and one quiet Sunday afternoon while helping Aunt Irene water the garden, she looked up at the sky, pointed to a ray of light cutting through the clouds and said, “That’s where she is now, isn’t it?” and Aunt Irene, with tears in her eyes, simply nodded, because sometimes children see heaven more clearly than adults ever could—Marissa never forgot, but she grew up loved, safe, and never again had to face hunger or grief alone, and every time she passed by the photo of her mother hanging gently on the living room wall, she would smile and whisper, “I’m okay now, Mommy. You can rest.”