Page 23 of Until the Ribbon Breaks

“What’s that?”

“Are you ready for this?” he asks and then tells me, “It’s fish sperm.”

“Ugh, are you serious? People actually eat that?”

Through his chuckles, he says, “You’d be surprised by the things people around the world eat.”

“No way. That’s flat-out nasty.”

“You aren’t the one who had to be polite and eat it!”

“You mean you continued to eat it after you knew what it was?”

“I didn’t want to be rude,” he defends, and I laugh—like, a real laugh, and it feels good.

“I can’t believe you ate fish sperm.”

“Remind me never to complain about your mother’s cooking again.”

And just like that, the laughter is gone.

“I really miss you,” I tell him once more.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Promise.”

“But then you’ll just turn around and leave again.”

He sighs in the background. “I know my being gone so much isn’t easy on you. It isn’t easy on me either.”

“I know. I just wish I had more time with you.”

“Same here, but your brother will be there tomorrow. I know you’re excited to have him back home.”

“I am, but it isn’t the same as having you home.”

“Three weeks,” he reminds me, and I repeat, “Three weeks.”

“I have to go now, okay?”

“Okay. I love you.”

“Not as much as I love you, sweetheart.”

Somehow, he manages to balm the wound my mother inflicted. Not entirely, but it’s enough to ease some of my anger. I know I should probably head back, but I’m not ready to go just yet. So, I remain and soak in as much solitude as I can, knowing that it’ll be short-lived once I leave.

When I return home and walk inside, all the lights are off. I don’t dare call out for my mom—no need to stir the beast. Still, I peek down the hall that leads to her bedroom as I pass it and see the stream of light from under her door, telling me she’s awake. I tiptoe up the stairs and into my room, keeping as quiet as I can.

After I throw on my pajamas, I lift the corner of mattress to grab my notebook.

It isn’t there.

I walk to the other end of the bed where I never leave it, but it isn’t there either.

I stand and turn in place, looking at my desk, looking on the ground, and looking at my nightstand.

It’s gone.

My pulse catapults, and before I know it, I’m ripping through my backpack, yanking out folders, papers, and books, but it’s nowhere to be found. Heat scorches my neck, and fury locks my jaw. The nerve of my mom to sneak into my room and take the one thing that helps me cope.

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