Author’s Note: I started this story with no ending in mind… about a woman in a quiet house, and a journal entry…
An ivory house stood at the end of the road. A small, elegant structure with slanted roof. Shrubs fenced it off from the others. Red bushes spilled leaves like heavy drops. The backyard opened into a wide meadow, ending at three large trees at the edge of the woods—the gatekeepers watching for intruders. Morning fog rolled low over the field just enough to swallow the feet of anyone crossing it. The clouds heavy with rain hid the sun.
In this light, the house appeared pale gray.
At the center, an arched window framed beige curtains and a woman seated at a desk. She sat still, like a statue, holding a pen between her fingers. Her face was slim and paler than the house itself. Her blue eyes were fixed on something just out of reach.
Sophia’s Journal
September 27
I have never written a journal, yet I need something to occupy my mind. Staring at walls or out the window amplifies my fears. Journaling should feel like talking to someone, without judgments, especially now, with the strange things that have been happening around the house. I don’t want anyone rolling their eyes at me, telling me I’ve imagined it all, or that I’m crazy.
I can’t remember the last adult conversation. Not counting ‘good mornings’ and ‘thank yous’ at the grocery store—all unreturned.
Benjamin cannot touch peanuts. Once, he nearly died. After that, I studied every label like a forensic scientist. With Emma on the way, quitting my job was inevitable.
Meanwhile, Peter’s work hours stretched longer. His trips to New York became more frequent until he got a place there. It’s been months since his last visit. The kids have already stopped asking about him because they know Daddy isn’t coming back.
Still, I’m blessed with these kids and the house…
I love this house, even though it feels empty and silent. But it’s motherhood, right? I often ache for the meaning my life once had: to pursue my career and shape the life I always wanted—the same way Peter does. But I’m too worried about Ben. Yet I’m writing now, hoping for a change.
“Mommy?” A tiny voice came from the door. Sophia looked up without expression.
“I’m hungry.” Emma stood in the doorway. One hand rubbing her sleepy eyes, the other hugging a stuffed rabbit.
“Of course you are.” Sophia walked to the girl, leaned over to kiss a cheek; a small pillow crease was still printed on it. She brushed it with her fingers, then held Emma’s hand, leading her out. “What would you like for breakfast: pancakes or waffles?”
Sophia’s Journal
September 29
I washed the dishes tonight, and for a while I thought somebody was standing behind me. Watching me.
Had Peter come to surprise us?
I met him in college. My mother adored him. He reflected the qualities of an ideal husband, and she was convinced I should marry him.
Then my dad suffered a heart attack. When Peter proposed, I couldn’t say no. The image of my father, strapped with IV tubes into a hospital bed, that clinical smell and beeping. I only asked, “Why get married?” It didn’t feel like love, and if Peter did love me, then why get married? He said “I love you” with the same blank stare he’d given the brick wall.
I’m guessing he had his own reasons… So we did it.
It’s been twelve years of… evasive eyes and an empty chair at dinners.
I dropped the pen, feeling blood rushing to my head, pulsing frantically. Yet my fingers were numb from the cold.
Peter again. Let’s not reopen healing wounds.
I closed the notebook and left to check on the kids. The doorknob felt warm, like glass after someone had breathed on it. I tiptoed downstairs towards the kitchen. The dishes in the sink greeted me from a doorway.
A breeze outside the windows rustled leaves, a crisp whisper in a silent night. I ran the water through my hands, soaking up its warmth. Autumn slowly arrived, unpacking its long, chilling nights.
I turned the hot water up and let it cascade down the plate.
And then I felt someone behind me—so close to raise a shiver. I paused and looked. I was the only one in the room.
Was it the wind? I inhaled slowly and set the plate onto the drying rack. My hand reached for a teacup and slid it beneath the stream of water.
That’s when an exhale touched my nape; I froze. Then another, closer to my ear. The cup in my hand trembled, betraying my forced steadiness. I stood like a stone until my fingers began to burn.
I jerked my hands from under the stream and turned to face the undisturbed kitchen.
Yet, I wasn’t alone. I wiped my hands and rushed upstairs.
That night, I listened for the tiniest stirs in the quiet, until sleep took me away.
I woke up late. Ben had already been up, reading a book, and Emma was drawing with colored pencils. She is at this stage, where figures still don’t look like people, but begin to have eyes and limbs. Ben likes to build things with blocks. He’s pragmatic, just like his dad.
I brewed a cup of coffee and scanned the kitchen, remembering last night. Has anyone been here? I couldn’t tell.
I drifted to the sink and closed my eyes. Last night was windy, so there is a chance that… No! Who am I kidding? It wasn’t the wind. It was a breath; a man’s breath, on my neck, warm, and… I actually liked it. Oh my god! What am I saying!? I was terrified! But at the same time, it was… delicate and intimate.
Stop it! Feed your children! I shook my head and moved towards the refrigerator.
“I’m going to make eggs today,” I distracted myself. “After breakfast, we can go out.”
Sophia’s Journal.
October 1.
Today we went on a hike around the lake, talking about brave adventurers. The kids climbed rocks, searching for secret paths and treasure. Emma was so exhausted, and I carried her for a couple of miles until she fell asleep in my arms. It was a good day.
The thought of cleaning dishes after dinner iced my bones. But also thrilled me. As if a mysterious admirer might come to see me. I inched toward the sink and faced just a few plates in it. I didn’t have to do it today, but… I wanted to. I twisted the knob and let the water run. What am I doing?
Waiting. For his presence. Feel that warmth again. That’s insane! But it’s true. I felt like I was going on a date. God, how do I look?! I panicked. I wore a long beige dress. A simple, casual outfit.
I let my hair fall free and noticed an old candle on the window. I lit it, allowing the golden glow to spill across the countertop. I fantasized about a man coming back home after a long day at work and greeting me in the kitchen, while I wrapped my arms around him.
I thought I heard a quiet click, and I smiled to myself at how realistic my imagination had grown.
But then I felt a gentle touch on my lower back. A slow stroke that gave me goose bumps. I dropped my shoulders and let my lips curl up. Who is he? I worried that if I opened my eyes, I would see no one. I just tilted my head.
A sudden thud ripped through the bushes, followed by a harsh snap of branches. I jerked. A beam of light flickered in the kitchen. Outside, two figures with flashlights skimmed the windows, circling my backyard.
Burglars! I raced upstairs. Ben was asleep. I latched his window, tracing the trespassers, who now ventured towards the driveway. I ran to lock Emma’s window. I leaned over her bed when her arm slipped around my neck, pulling me close with surprising strength. I curled into her, kissed her cheek, and stayed. Emma held on tight as if she sensed my fear.
“Shhhhh,” I whispered.
Outside, an engine started. Gravel crunched, and all the noise faded.
I stayed there, listening for any sign of disturbance, until quiet lulled me to sleep.
The rain’s tapping at the pane woke me. Emma’s arm was still around me. I freed myself and tiptoed to the window. No trespassers. I checked on Ben. He smiled through his sleep.
Downstairs was just as quiet as any other day. The patio door and the front door were locked, with no signs of forced entry. Then a post emerged in the front lawn, holding a black sign with orange letters: “For Sale.” What?! If it hadn’t poured outside, I would have knocked it right over. I gritted my teeth and shut the curtains.
“Are we still going to the concert today?” Ben’s words cut into my thoughts. I flinched.
“Good morning,” I turned and kissed him on his forehead. “What concert, honey?” I looked at his face, trying to read him.
“Oh, right, we have the theater tickets,” I remembered. “It’s not a concert, Ben. It’s a musical, just like ‘The Lion King’ we saw a few months back, remember? And it’s tomorrow, not today.”
“Will we go if it rains?” Ben continued.
“Of course we’ll go. It won’t rain inside the theater, right?” Ben’s face beamed with a smile.
“Okay, I’ll get ready.” He sprinted into his room.
“It’s tomorrow,” I yelled after him. Kids’ excitement has no sense of timing.
It rained the entire day. The children played board games while I vacuumed and cooked dinner. My mind kept circling back to the hand gliding along my back, the heat blooming under his palm, and my knees refusing to stay locked.
Who is he? He wasn’t imagined: his touch was real, his breath was real, and the smell of soap was real. A ghost? I paused, contemplating this.
After dinner, I showered while the kids bathed. I flipped through my dresses in the closet, choosing the outfit for my kitchen date. The thought made me shake my head: ridiculous! I felt like an older version of a schoolgirl dressing for a crush.
I chose a black pencil skirt and a brown buttoned shirt with delicate bows on the sleeves, put on makeup, and styled my hair. I didn’t remember the last time I looked this good.
When the kids’ light went out, I slipped into the kitchen, poured red wine into crystal glasses, and turned on the water.
Peter came to mind. Should I feel guilty? He’d disappeared long ago and had surely been with other women. That’s why he left, even if he never said it.
A gentle touch landed on my back. The familiar feeling—not Peter’s. This one was tender, warm, and welcoming.
“Hi,” I whispered, wondering what to call him. A firm arm slid onto my stomach. I leaned back into him, and his body pressed against mine. Delicate kisses showered my neck, firing all the nerves in my body. I sighed. I turned into his warmth. My hands touched his chest, then glided towards his neck and face, studying details. I lifted my chin and found his lips. My heart was racing. His arms slid down to my hips. I pulled him close, realizing how much I wanted him. Right now.
A phone rang.
Sophia ignored it. But he jumped back.
Shit!
“Don’t go!” She screamed, trying to catch her breath.
A doorbell cut through the hallway. A key twisted in the lock. Peter!?
Sophia rushed towards the door. A woman in a business suit had already entered, and a middle-aged couple trailed behind.
“How did you get a key to my house?” Sophia asked firmly, blocking their way. They passed her without the slightest attention. “Hey, I live here. You can’t come in…” Sophia raised her voice, but nobody seemed to hear.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” the lady in a suit said to the couple. “Please, feel free to look around.” She acted as if she owned the house.
“No! Please leave.” Sophia objected. The couple pushed into the kitchen.
“This is a beautiful house,” the woman said, glancing around. “Much nicer than in the pictures.”
“Yes, the owners really took exceptional care of it,” the realtor agreed.
“Not they!” Sophia said sharply. “I did!”
“They didn’t die in the house, did they?” the woman continued.
“No,” the realtor said. “A car accident. It’s tragic.”
“All of them?” the man asked, wandering into the kitchen.
Sophia’s fingers tightened around a chair. The sound of rain outside drifted in. Heavy drops bounced against the roof of her car. Bright, scattered lights. A truck in front. The crash. Emma’s screams. The rolling. Sophia tried to reach the back seat, but her hand got trapped. Then a sharp pain in her chest. The screaming stopped. Yes, there’s been an accident. How had she forgotten? But we survived. Didn’t we?
“No,” the realtor shook her head. “Just the wife and the kids. The husband lives in New York. He wants to sell the house as soon as possible.”
Sophia looked at her pale hands. Their color faded each day, now almost like milk. White and cold. And the band-aid on her little finger… the same one!
Every day, Emma wakes up in the same shirt, not her PJs. So does Ben. Why hadn’t she noticed that earlier?
Tears rolled down her face. Her hand reached up to wipe them, but her fingers didn’t get wet. She felt the tears that weren’t there.
“So, how old did you say this house is?” the man asked. The realtor raised her clipboard and flipped through pages.
“About eight years,” she responded confidently. “I knew the previous owner.” She looked at the couple. “It’s a small town. He was the sweetest man.”
Sophia felt the room spin. The strangers’ voices were muffled by her pounding heart.
“He built this house,” the realtor went on, “and lived here alone until he sold it to the current owner three years ago.” Then she squinted her eyes. “Sadly, he passed away. His truck collided with another car.” She frowned, tapping her pen against the clipboard.
“Same road. That might’ve been the same accident.”
“Aren’t we celebrating prematurely?” asked the man, lifting one of the wine glasses from the counter.
“Make yourself at home.” The realtor smiled. “You don’t have to make a decision right now, but this is a beautiful house, and it will fly off the market in days.” She strode out, high heels tapping toward the front door.
The couple giggled and whispered their way through the hallway, then slipped outside, leaving empty glasses behind.
Sophia held her eyes on them until they got into their cars and faded into the trees. She stepped behind the door and rested her hand against it.
An arm wrapped around her waist.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” she whispered. “You built this house.” The arm pulled her in. She turned slowly and finally saw him—exactly as she had imagined. His brown eyes held hers, patient and full. She leaned against his shoulder, and his hand brushed her cheek.
No reflection formed in the window. Outside, the wind moved through the shrubs, bending the trees.
I rest my hand on my daughter’s chest. Beneath my touch, her heartbeat jumps like a rabbit through wildflowers. “Can you feel love?” I ask. She giggles and presses her tiny palm over my heart. “I can’t feel yours, Mommy.” I cup her cheek and tell her to listen. She leans her ear against my sternum. I hold my breath, afraid she might not find it. The room seems to listen with her until she murmurs, “I hear it.” I ask what it’s saying. She holds still, her lips parting slightly. I whisper that every beat repeats the same words.
I love you.
She doesn’t answer for a moment. Then she nods, leans closer, and squeezes me tight. “I hear it,” she says again. I close my eyes, memorizing the sound.
A woman hurried across the street, dodging a man crouched in the corner, talking to himself. His hair was long, his clothes smelled, and his raspy voice mumbled something that made passersby uncomfortable. Most stare at the ground and veer away.
In Los Angeles, this is as normal as a sunny day. We call them homeless, crazy, or addicts raising tents under a freeway. But we don’t see them as what they once were: humans with big dreams.
Not all of them came chasing fame. Some escaped disasters.
Back then, there was courage in their hearts. They packed their cars or boarded a bus with a guitar. Some told their parents they were leaving their small town because there was a world out there—a place where dreams take shape. They arrived in Hollywood, seeking their big break.
It’s brave; it takes confidence. Yet, we won’t admit it, or perhaps, we never think this deeply.
But chasing dreams in Los Angeles has a lethal price tag. Undoubtedly, some made it, while others fell into the throat of this city. LA chews on dreamers, swallowing them piece by piece. Rent first. Then health. Then dignity. While the sun shines bright. And when the time and resources run out, the verdict follows: ‘they didn’t try hard enough.’
This is survivorship bias.
We hear inspiring stories from singers, actors, or entrepreneurs who slept in a car and “never gave up.” Social media is flooded with success biographies of high school dropouts-turned-icons, praising perseverance, resilience, and never quitting.
But what about the other side? The majority: the people who gave it all and still didn’t make it. Life intervened, money ran out, or timing didn’t line up.
Is the effort alone enough? We love breakthrough tales. They are inspirational and make the world seem fair. But that’s not true; life isn’t fair. Not everyone excels from trying, and not everyone succeeds.
Cemeteries remind us of that. Have you ever walked past rows, reading names, and finding small gaps between birth and death? I ask, what’s their story? What did they dream of?
Los Angeles is a cemetery— except the names are still breathing. The graveyard of broken dreams lives on sidewalks. In tents. In people we avoid because if we look too closely, we might recognize ourselves.
I think about this because my child wants to sing. Just a girl with a voice and a dream. She plays guitar, sings, and… believes. I support her, drive her to lessons, and applaud from my couch. Dreams are beautiful—I don’t want her to stop dreaming! But in LA, dreams without a backup plan are like jumping off a cliff and hoping to land on a mattress. Especially now with social media blaring, “just keep pushing indefinitely, success is inevitable.”
Is it? Really?
Having an alternate plan isn’t a failure. Proposing checkpoints or a deadline doesn’t mean quitting. It’s tracking progress instead of blindly sacrificing years and hoping luck shows up before rent is due. What’s noble about starving for a dream when there were other ways to survive?
The happiest lives I know run on two tracks: financial stability and passion; one feeds the soul, and one feeds the body. Yet social media favors extremes: Fame or failure. It doesn’t show the middle: the people who built parallel paths. And it certainly doesn’t show the ones who disappeared.
Every soul sleeping on the street has a story. Some are still missed back at home. Some never had a home to begin with.
I want my daughter to believe in herself, knowing that her worth (or her singing) doesn’t depend on applause or validation.
Don’t let a dream kill your life. Feed your mouth before you feed your dreams. LA is full of people who believed—and paid that lethal price.
So work, create, pursue, and dream. Dream boldly— with your head on your shoulders and your feet on the ground.
Experts say being a mom is terrific. Days filled with hugs, kisses, and joy. Spare me! Put any of those experts in my car, and they’d choke on their theories in a heartbeat. My three kids were screaming like cockatoos in the backseat while we sat trapped in L.A. traffic. I gripped the wheel, dreaming of the beach. Tomorrow. One last ocean escape before summer ends. That’s the plan… Or at least it was until my husband ruined it.
For months, he’d had his eyes on a new Tesla. No surprise that the moment I walked in the door, he yelled: “We are picking up Tesla tomorrow! 4 pm!” excitement spilling over every word. “What? I told you, tomorrow we are going to the beach,” I insisted. “No. You’ll drive me to pick up the car,” he confirmed without looking at me.
So much for relaxing in the sand, even though I desperately needed a break; now we were picking up Tesla—4 pm—the exact window to wreck my day. The kids were thrilled. My husband was ecstatic. And I was… pissed. I saw children’s crescent grins and asked myself: Why wasn’t I excited about a new car? I know I should have been. Because it never mattered what I wanted. They just assumed I’d tag along, like I’ve always had. I was their 24/7 full-service robot.
The next morning proved it. Coffee reheated twice. Reading my book was interrupted by a pounding fist that demanded ‘Mommy!’ And before I noticed, I was back on duty on my supposed day off.
At four o’clock sharp, I was standing ten feet away, watching my family worship a shiny-blue beast that hijacked my Sunday. It reigned in the parking lot, staring me down, mocking my resentment. The kids bounced around in a frenzy, smudging their fingerprints across Tesla’s spotless body, while my husband walked around beaming.
A man in a blazing red Tesla T-shirt and biker sunglasses burst out. He attacked the car with a bright-yellow rag like a soldier on parade, buffing the exterior. But he could hardly keep up with my kids, who undid his work in seconds. I laughed to myself, seeing his worried face and sweat breaking out on his forehead. I wondered if I looked like this when I cleaned at home.
Instantly, the humor evaporated. I realized I envied him. He—the man wiping cars—had a paycheck, a lunch break, and the occasional ‘thank you.’ Me—a mom with a so-called fancy (yet completely useless) law degree—had none of that. I stood in my well-tailored trousers and a silk blouse—presentable outside, but hiding swollen eyes behind sunglasses. Had anyone come close, they’d see the tears burning underneath. But nobody dared to approach. I was too damned well-composed. I stared at my family, realizing that I didn’t fit in this moment. Not in this car.
“Excuse me,” a soft voice broke my thoughts. “Do you mind taking a picture of me in my new car?” A curly blonde dude politely held out his phone. With the sun against his back and a big smile, he looked like an Inca sun god. I smiled and almost bowed. But the glare of Tesla beside him spotlit the true god on this lot. “Of course,” I replied and snapped a few shots from different angles. “Thank you,” he radiated gratitude. Then he slipped inside the car and pulled away.
Meanwhile, my husband asked the kids to remove their shoes before entering. Shoes lined up immediately, as if this Tesla was a temple. “Holy Tesla,” I whispered, jaw hinged open. I was stunned. Since when? When did he start caring about shoes? At home, they tramp through the living room as if it had a built-in self-cleaning feature—another reminder that it was time to move on and begin a new life. Reality barged in when I heard my kids already fighting about the seats, while my husband paced around the car like a lunatic, searching for imperceptible scratches.
Why do I keep calling him my husband? Maybe because, legally, we are still married, and “father of my kids” sounds too harsh, considering that we all share a roof. Yet, I was happy for him. Very happy. He’d worked hard, climbing his legal staircase steadily, each step rewarded with a raise or a promotion. And now he’s reached the wheel of his dream.
And my dreams? They’d been shot off with a silencer a long time ago. That car was the reflection of my own grief—my life passing, my career sacrificed to care for my kids. Almost as if I looped a leash around my neck, handed it to them, and let them drag me behind, like a cow to the market.
“Congratulations on a new car.” The red shirt delivered his well-rehearsed line. I blinked in surprise. “The kids are happy,” he continued with a dry smile. “We all are,” I lied, thinking: I hate that fucking car. I glanced one last time and waved them off. But nobody noticed me from inside their new Tesla.
I turned toward my old, faithful Subaru, roasting in the sun, heat shimmering above the roof. The thought of driving without air conditioning made me sweat. But I didn’t care. It was twenty minutes of quiet freedom on the way home—all mine. I rolled down the windows, let the breeze in, and turned up reggae for a perfect beach vibe.
Wolverine Lily 