“Mama…”

She doesn’t say the words, but you still hear them: “not now, sweetie. Mama’s busy.”

You know better than to reach out for her. Your hands are already stinging. Better to keep them by your side where they can’t annoy anybody.

Still, the need aches at you.

“I told you, I’m busy,” she doesn’t say.

You try to be a good girl and pull away, but your heart doesn’t listen; it still reaches out despite knowing it’s not allowed.

The yelling gets louder. “Didn’t you hear me? I said I was busy. Stop being a bother.”