Waiting

The red numbers on Mabel’s alarm clock read 12:07 a.m., the colon between hours and minutes blinking steadily like it knew exactly how much she hated it. She lay on her side, knees tucked close, staring into the dark. Her room felt colder than it had earlier, but she didn’t want to get up and get a blanket.

She was waiting.

The heater hummed in the corner, but the rest of the house was too quiet, too still. Even the wind outside seemed like it was holding its breath. Nights like this were always the hardest.

Her father’s schedule was unpredictable, but he’d promised to be home tonight. He’d said it in that way only he could, voice low and certain, like the words themselves were unshakable. And Mabel believed him. She always believed him.

Still, she couldn’t shake the gnawing in her chest. The longer the silence stretched, the heavier it felt.

A faint thump came from the room across the hall, followed by a grumble that was too small to belong to anyone but August. Mabel pictured her little sister kicking her blanket to the floor again, probably tangled in her sheets like a ship caught in a net. August was loud even in her sleep; at three years old, she had no concept of being gentle with the world.

William, on the other hand, was quiet to the point of invisibility. She imagined him curled up in his bed, eyes open in the dark, listening for the same sound she was, the crunch of tires on gravel, the rattle of keys at the door, her father’s heavy boots on the floor.

The heater clicked off, and the house fell into a silence so deep it made her ears ring.

Mabel’s mind slipped to memories without her permission. Her father coming home after a week away, lifting August so high she squealed, “Higher! Higher!” until he pretended his arms were too tired. The way he’d sit on the floor with William, both of them hunched over a puzzle in absolute silence, except for the quiet click of pieces fitting into place. The way he’d ruffle Mabel’s hair when no one was looking, a small, private thing just for her.

She could still remember the smell of him: metal, leather, and a faint trace of pine from the aftershave he swore he didn’t need. She’d catch it on her own clothes sometimes, hours after he’d hugged her.

He’ll be home. She told herself that, over and over, as if thinking it enough times would make it true.

The clock blinked 12:23.

August’s muffled voice came again, this time clearer.

“M’bel?”

Mabel rolled onto her back. “Go back to sleep, Auggie,” she called softly.

A pause, then, “I want water.”

She almost told her to wait until morning, but she didn’t have the heart. The idea of telling August “no” tonight felt wrong. She got up, her socked feet barely making a sound on the floor, and padded into the hall.

August was standing in her doorway, hair sticking up in all directions, one arm dragging her stuffed bunny by the ear. “Water,” she repeated, with the unflinching authority only a toddler could summon.

Mabel led her to the kitchen, filled a plastic cup from the tap, and handed it over. August gulped noisily, then smacked her lips. “Where’s Daddy?”

The question landed like a weight in Mabel’s stomach. “He’s coming,” she said automatically.

“Why so late?”

Mabel didn’t answer.

She got August back into bed, tucking the blankets around her like a fortress. She lingered there for a moment, brushing a hand over her sister’s hair, before returning to her own room.

12:46.

She tried reading, but the words blurred on the page. She tried listening for the hum of a car, but all she heard was the wind scraping against the side of the house. She sat on the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees, and thought about all the times she’d waited like this before. Some nights he’d walk in smiling, some nights he looked like he was carrying something too heavy to put into words.

Her eyes burned from staying open so long, but she didn’t dare close them. If she fell asleep, she might miss the sound of him coming home.

She imagined him stepping through the door tonight, dropping his bag in the corner, hugging her so hard it knocked the air out of her. She pictured herself telling him about William’s art project, about the time August somehow climbed onto the counter and got into the peanut butter.

She imagined the relief of hearing his voice again.

1:18.

The knock came like a gunshot in the quiet; three hard, deliberate raps that made her heart leap into her throat.

Her first thought: That’s not him.

Her second: Something’s wrong.

She froze, straining to listen. Her mother’s footsteps moved quickly down the hall, faster than Mabel had heard them in weeks. The front door creaked open, letting in a gust of cold air.

Then the voices. Low. Steady.

“…ma’am, I’m afraid…”

Her mother’s voice broke before the sentence was finished. The sound didn’t even seem real, too raw, too sharp. Mabel stood, her legs unsteady, and stepped into the hall.

Her mother was clinging to the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Two men in uniform stood outside, hats in their hands, faces solemn. One of them held a folded paper, the kind Mabel had seen before in movies but never in real life.

She didn’t need to hear the words. She knew.

Her mouth went dry, her chest tightening until she could barely breathe. She wanted to scream no, to make them take it back, but the sound wouldn’t come.

A small voice behind her broke the air. “M’bel? Who’s that?”

She turned to see August rubbing her eyes, dragging her bunny along the carpet. William was just behind her, pale and silent, his eyes wide like he already understood.

Mabel crouched down, pulling August into her lap. “It’s okay,” she whispered, though her throat burned with the lie. William’s hand slipped into hers, small and trembling.

Their mother didn’t turn around. She didn’t look at them. She just kept sobbing into her hands as the men in the doorway spoke in quiet, clipped sentences.

After what felt like hours, the men left. The door shut with a heavy finality that made the house feel smaller.

Their mother went straight to her room and closed the door. The sound of the lock clicking carried down the hall.

Mabel sat with her siblings on the couch. August kept asking questions: "Where’s Daddy? Why was Mama crying? Why did those men come?” But Mabel didn’t answer. William sat pressed against her side, silent tears sliding down his cheeks.

When August finally started to drift off, Mabel laid her down and tucked a blanket around her. William stayed close, his hand clutching her sleeve.

The house was dark except for the dim light from the kitchen. Mabel sat there, holding them both, staring into the shadows. She couldn’t cry, not while they might see.

The clock ticked toward morning.

When their breathing finally deepened, she slipped away. She went to the kitchen and leaned against the counter, her hands braced hard enough to hurt. The house felt hollow, like every sound echoed back at her.

She let herself remember his voice, his laugh, the way he’d tap her shoulder twice before heading upstairs. She imagined the exact weight of his hug, the warmth of his jacket against her cheek. And then, just as quickly, she pictured the uniformed men at the door, their faces carved from stone.

Her hands shook.

She pressed her palms against her eyes and let the sobs come; quiet at first, then harder, until she had to bite her sleeve to keep from waking them.

When she finally stopped, she felt wrung out, her throat raw. She poured herself a glass of water and didn’t drink it.

She went back to the couch and sat between her siblings, curling her arms around them. August twitched in her sleep, William’s face buried in her sweater.

Dawn would come soon. And when it did, she’d have to start answering their questions. But for now, she just held them tighter, like they might disappear if she let go.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the pale glow at the edges of the curtains, the kind of light that didn’t feel warm at all. Her chest felt heavy, like if she breathed too deep, it might break apart.

She thought about the days ahead, and for the first time, the shape of them scared her.

There would be birthdays without him. August’s next one was in a month. He’d always been the one to blow up the balloons, pretending each one was going to pop just to make her squeal. Now it would just be Mabel, tying knots with sore fingers, trying to get the colors right.

Christmas would be worse. He’d always been the one to sneak a piece of candy cane before the tree was even decorated, winking like it was their little secret. Who would carry August on his shoulders to hang the star? Who would pretend not to notice when William tucked himself into a corner, too shy to open gifts in front of everyone?

School plays, scraped knees, August’s first day of kindergarten, he’d miss all of it. The thought made her stomach twist.

She tried not to think about the big milestones- graduations, weddings- but they pushed their way in anyway. She imagined standing there in a too-big dress, pretending she didn’t see the empty chair in the front row. She imagined August looking around for him when she walked across a stage, William shrinking into himself because he hated crowds and needed someone to lean on.

The idea of filling in for him felt impossible. But there was no one else to do it.

Her eyes burned again. She pressed her face into August’s hair and inhaled that warm, faintly sweet toddler smell; peanut butter and shampoo and something uniquely hers. She clung to it like it was proof the world still had good things in it.

Her free hand smoothed William’s hair. He made a faint sound in his sleep, and her chest squeezed. He was seven, but tonight he felt so much younger.

The sun would rise, and life would keep moving, whether she wanted it to or not. She would have to cook breakfast, make sure William got to school, clean up August’s spills, and act like the ground beneath them hadn’t just shifted forever.

She didn’t know if she could.

But she knew she would.

Because that’s what he’d expect from her. Because if she didn’t, there was no one else to keep them from falling apart completely.

Mabel tightened her arms around her siblings and let the world outside keep turning without her. The light grew brighter against the curtains, spilling into the room like something she didn’t feel ready for.

“Okay,” she whispered into the stillness, though she didn’t know who she was talking to. Herself, her father, the quiet morning pressing against the glass.

And then she stayed there, unmoving, holding on to the only pieces of him she had left.