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-One week later-
“Papi, don’t go!”
The scream tore through the morning air, raw and desperate, shattering the false calm of the suburban street. Five-year-old Lyla attached herself to her father’s trouser leg, her small fingers digging into the fabric like clamps. Her face was pressed against his knee, hot tears soaking through the material, her body shaking with the force of her sobs.
Michael looked down at her, his jaw tight. He glanced at his watch, then at the car idling in the driveway, the exhaust fumes curling into the crisp air. He pried her fingers loose, one by one, with a sense of detachment that terrified her. It was as if he were removing a stain, not his daughter.
“Lyla, stop. Get off,” he said, his voice strained, vibrating with impatience. “You’re making a scene.”
“Lyla, dear, let go,” her mother said, stepping forward. She gently but firmly took Lyla by the shoulders, pulling her back. Her grip was trembling. “He’ll be back before you know it. It’s just a business trip. It’s just work.”
“No! Papi, do you not love me?” Lyla thrashed in her mother’s grip, her eyes wide and frantic, searching his face for any sign of hesitation. “What did I do? Why are you leaving me? Was I bad? I can be better!”
Michael sighed, a heavy, irritated sound. He picked up his briefcase, using it as a shield between them. He didn’t look her in the eye. “Lyla, it’s not that. I would’ve taken you with me if it weren’t for your school and your mother. You have to study. You have a life here.”
“I don’t want a life here! I want you!” She lunged forward again, grabbing his hand, her nails scratching his skin. “Don’t go. Please, Papi. I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t ask for anything ever again.”
“I have to,” he said, pulling his hand away as if her touch burned. He checked his watch again, panic flickering in his eyes, not panic about losing his daughter, but panic about missing his flight. “I’m running late. I have to go. Now.”
He turned and walked briskly toward the sedan, his coat flapping behind him. The driver held the door open. Michael didn’t look back. Not once.
“Papi, don’t go!” She screamed again, her voice cracking, a sound that came from the very bottom of her soul.
He slid into the backseat and slammed the door. Through the tinted glass, Lyla thought she saw him turn, thinking he might change his mind. But the engine revved, a loud, aggressive growl that drowned out her cries. The car rolled forward, crunching over the gravel. The five-year-old watched, frozen, as the shiny black vehicle grew smaller and smaller, fading into a blur at the end of the street until it disappeared around the corner.
The silence that followed was deafening. It pressed down on Elena’s chest, suffocating her.
“Daddy really left,” Her mother said softly from the doorway, arms wrapping around her daughter. Her voice was hollow, exhausted. “Come in now, Lyla.”
The young child stood rooted to the spot, staring at the empty road. Her tears had stopped, but her face was blotchy and red. “I am waiting for Papi. He will come back. I hid his sunglasses.”
“He won’t be back anytime soon,” She said, her tone firm but gentle. She walked down the porch steps, the wood creaking under her feet. “But he will be back in a few days. For now, you have to come inside. It’s cold.”
“I will wait for him here,” She said stubbornly, wiping her nose on her sleeve. She fixed her eyes on the spot where the car had vanished. “I’m not moving.”
“Lyla, look at me.” She crouched in front of her daughter, trying to catch her gaze, but her daughter's eyes remained fixed on the horizon. “No. Come inside. I’ll call Papi later if you come inside right now. We can video call him tonight.”
“No.”
Elena sighed, running a hand through her hair. She was scrambling, desperate to break the trance her daughter was in. “I’ll call your friends over.”
“I don’t have any,” Lyla mumbled, her voice taking on a dark edge. “I’m not talking to Timmy anymore.”
“Why? What happened?”
“He’s boring,” She said, kicking a loose stone on the driveway. “He cries too much.”
Elena blinked, startled by the coldness in a five-year-old’s voice, but she didn't have the energy to interrogate it. “You can play with your toys,” she tried again, her voice rising in desperation. “You can do whatever you want. I won’t say anything.” She hesitated, then lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, willing to say anything to get her child out of the cold. “You can ruin the doll’s hair like you wanted to earlier. You can rip her dress. I won’t say a word.”
Lyla’s tears stopped instantly. Her head snapped up, her eyes suddenly wide and dry. The sadness evaporated, replaced by a sharp, keen interest. “Really?”
“Yes,” Elena nodded quickly, a shiver of unease running through her that she pushed away. “Now come inside.”
“Okay, Mumma.”
The young girl turned and marched into the house with a strange, calm purpose. Elena watched her go, a shiver tracing down her spine that had nothing to do with the wind. The transition from hysterical grief to eerie calm had happened too fast. She shook it off and headed into the kitchen.
Needing to do something, anything, to fix the broken morning, she cooked her daughter’s favourite, pancakes with whipped cream and strawberries. She whisked the batter aggressively, trying to whisk away her own anxiety. She arranged them perfectly on a plate, cutting the edges off the crust just the way Lyla liked, and walked upstairs to her daughter's room.
“Eat up, sweetheart,” Her mother said, forcing a bright smile as she placed the plate on the small pink table.
“Okay, Mumma,” She said. She didn't look at the food. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a sea of plastic limbs.
Elena froze. She looked around the room. The dolls she had bought just last week were strewn across the carpet. But they weren't playing. They were... disassembled. Three dolls lay in a pile, their arms and legs twisted off, lying disjointed beside them. One doll’s head was facing backwards, twisted completely around.
Why does Lyla do that? A cold knot formed in her stomach. She asked to break them, but... why does she enjoy it? Is this because of Michael?
The child picked up a strawberry and popped it into her mouth, chewing happily while she twisted the leg off another Barbie with a sickening snap. She seemed peaceful. Content, even.
“Lyla, sweetie,” She whispered, “why is the doll broken?”
“Because she was bad, Mumma,” She stated simply, not looking up. “She didn’t listen, and she also looked too perfect, and I don’t like that.”
Elena felt the blood drain from her face. She wanted to ask more, to scold her, but she was too drained to fight. She backed out of the room slowly.
After a few minutes, Lyla jumped up, the pancakes forgotten. She ran downstairs, her feet thumping heavily on the steps, the energy returning to her instantly.
“Mumma!” she called out, finding her mother standing by the living room window, staring at the empty driveway.
She tugged on her mother’s shirt. “Can I go to the park, please?” She widened her eyes, jutting out her bottom lip in the perfect puppy-dog expression. “Please? I need to go outside.”
Elena looked down at her daughter. The contrast between the tears from an hour ago and this sudden, chirpy demand was jarring. It made her head spin.
“Only if you come back when I call you without any delay,” Her mother said sternly, kneeling down to look her in the eye.
“Okay.”
“No asking for five minutes.”
“Won’t.”
“Promise?”
“Pinky promise,” Lyla said, extending her small finger. Her mother hooked her own pinky around it.
“Pinky promise,” She repeated, though the grip felt oddly strong.
Her daughter grinned, a wide, unblemished smile, and spun around, bolting out the front door. Elena watched her run down the street, her pigtails bouncing, turning the corner toward the neighbourhood playground.
---
The playground was buzzing with the noise of children. The air smelled of woodchips and damp earth. As soon as Lyla stepped through the iron gates, the atmosphere shifted.
A group of boys playing tag near the slide saw her. They stopped mid-run. A little girl on the bench whispered something to her mother and pointed. One by one, they began to retreat. It wasn’t a panic, but a slow, deliberate scattering, like squirrels sensing a predator. Within seconds, the sandbox was empty, the swings abandoned. They moved to the far end of the park, casting nervous glances her way, leaving the entire main area for her.
Lyla didn't seem to mind. In fact, her smile widened. She walked through the silence she had created, the queen of her empty kingdom. She sat on the middle swing, gripping the rusted chains. She began to pump her legs, the swing creaking in a rhythmic ee-er, ee-er.
She started to sing, her sweet, melodic voice carrying across the empty playground, twisting the innocent nursery rhyme into something darker.
“Five little monkeys running away...” she sang, her voice dripping with a chilling innocence. “One fell down because I pushed him...”
She giggled, swinging higher, her legs kicking the sky.
“Four little monkeys running away... one fell down because I broke his leg...”
She jumped off the swing mid-air, landing in the dirt with a soft thud. She marched over to the monkey bars. She climbed to the top with practised ease, hooking her knees over the cold metal bar. She hung upside down, her dress falling over her head, her face flushed red with the rush of blood.
“I’m a monkey! I’m a monkey!” she shrieked, laughing as the world turned upside down. Her hair brushed the woodchips on the ground. From her inverted position, she watched the other children huddled in the distance, her eyes gleaming.
“Lyla!”
Her mother’s voice cut through the fun. Elena was standing at the gate, her arms crossed, looking pale.
Lyla righted herself, flipping off the bars and landing on her feet like a cat. “Five more minutes?” she pleaded, putting on her best pout, the mask of a sweet child sliding back into place instantly.
Elena walked closer, her face stern, trying to hide her own unease. “I only sent you because you promised you’d come back whenever I ask you to. We do not break promises in this house.”
She stared at her mother. The defiance in her eyes flickered for a second, hard and cold, then vanished behind a mask of obedience.
“Fine,” she huffed, kicking the dirt. She turned and marched past her mother toward the gate. “Let’s go.”
She didn't look back at the playground. She didn't need to. She knew they would still be watching.
The walk back to the house was quiet. Lyla skipped slightly ahead, her earlier tantrum seemingly forgotten, while Elena trailed behind, dragging her feet. The house felt different now, colder and emptier without Michael’s presence filling the space. His shoes were gone from the rack; his keys no longer hung on the hook.
As soon as the front door clicked shut, the child spun around. The calm expression she had worn at the park vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense urgency.
“Call him,” She demanded. She held out her hand, palm open. “Give me the phone. I want to call Papi.”
Her mother sighed, leaning her back against the door. She felt the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders. “Lyla, he’s travelling.”
“You said we could call him!” Her voice pitched up, a whine creeping into her tone. “You promised! You said, ‘I’ll call Papi later if you come inside.’ We are inside. Call him.”
“I said I would call him if you came inside without a fuss,” She corrected gently, though she knew she was splitting hairs. She walked past her daughter, into the living room, placing her bag on the couch. “He’s on a plane right now, Lyla. He can’t answer the phone. You know the rules, no phones on aeroplanes.”
The five-year-old’s face crumpled. She stomped her foot against the hardwood floor, a dull thud echoing through the room. “No! He’s not! He’s just at work! You’re lying! He’s ignoring me!”
“Lyla, stop it,” Her mother snapped, her patience fraying. She rubbed her temples, where a headache was beginning to bloom behind her eyes. “I am not lying. The flight is long. He will be in the air for hours. He can’t talk right now.”
“But I want to say goodnight,” She whispered, her anger dissolving into a trembling bottom lip. “I didn’t get to say goodnight properly. I want to tell him I’m sorry.”
Elena felt a crack in her heart. She knelt down, pulling Lyla into a stiff hug. “You don’t have to be sorry, baby. He knows you love him. He’s just... busy.”
“When will he answer?”
“He’ll land tomorrow morning,” She lied smoothly, though the taste of the deception was bitter on her tongue. She pulled back to look Lyla in the eye. “When you wake up, I promise, we will call him. He’ll be in his new hotel room, and he’ll pick up right away. Okay?”
The child stared at her, searching for any sign of deceit. “Tomorrow morning?”
“Yes. First thing after breakfast.”
“You promise?”
“I promise,” said her mother. “Now, go wash your hands and face. You smell like dirt and woodchips.”
Lyla hesitated, looking at the phone on the table one last time. She seemed to be calculating the odds, weighing her mother’s word against her own desperation. Finally, she nodded.
“Okay,” she said, her voice small. “But if he doesn’t answer tomorrow...”
“He will,” Elena cut her off quickly. “Go on.”
She trudged up the stairs, her hand trailing along the bannister. Her mother watched her go, letting out a long, shaky breath once her daughter was out of sight. She picked up her own phone, staring at the black screen, willing a text message to appear, an apology, an explanation, anything from Michael. But the screen remained dark.
An hour later, Lyla was tucked into bed. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a nightlight shaped like a star. Elena sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking under her weight. She held a worn storybook in her hands, but her daughter wasn’t looking at the pictures.
Instead she was staring at the ceiling, her eyes wide and unblinking.
“Mumma?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper in the quiet room.
“Yes, sweetheart?” She smoothed the duvet over Lyla’s chest.
“Did Papi take his suitcase?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Did he take the blue tie? The one with the stripes?”
Elena paused, trying to remember what Michael had packed. “I think so. He likes that tie.”
Lyla was silent for a moment. “If he likes the tie... why does he like New Zealand more than me?”
The question hit her mother like a physical blow. She blinked back tears, forcing her voice to stay steady. “Oh, Lyla, no. He doesn’t like New Zealand more than you. It’s not a choice like that. He has to work so he can buy you nice things. Like the dolls.”
“I don’t want the dolls,” She mumbled, turning her head to the side, burrowing into her pillow. “I want him to come back and read the story.”
Elena swallowed the lump in her throat. She opened the book. “I can read the story. I’ll do the voices.”
“You don’t do the funny voice for the bear,” She murmured, her eyes finally starting to droop. “Papi does it deep. Like a growl.”
“I’ll try,” Her mother whispered. She began to read, her voice trembling slightly. “Once upon a time, in a deep, dark wood, there lived a bear...”
She read until the child’s breathing evened out, until the little girl’s hand relaxed its grip on the blanket. But even as she slept, her brow was furrowed, a small line of worry etched between her eyebrows.
She closed the book gently. She leaned down and kissed her forehead, lingering there for a moment.
“Sleep tight, my love,” she whispered.
As she stood up to leave, she glanced at the bedside table. Lyla had placed the dolls there, but not the whole dolls. Just the heads. Three plastic heads, lined up in a row, facing the door, as if standing guard.
A chill ran down her spine. She hurried out of the room, closing the door softly behind her, praying that tomorrow morning would bring a phone call that could fix this, even though deep down, she knew it wouldn't.
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