Left at the Gas Station

I was seven years old when my mom told me to pack my bag. She said we were

going on a short trip. Just for the weekend. I believed her. We stopped at a

gas station late at night. The lights were bright, and the air smelled

like coffee and fuel. She told me to wait inside while she paid.

She said, “Don’t move.” I sat on a cold plastic chair, holding my backpack.

I watched the door the entire time. Ten minutes passed. Then thirty. Then an hour.

Every time the door opened, my heart jumped. But it was never her.

The cashier finally asked me where my mom was. I tried to answer, but my mouth wouldn’t