Page 38 of Grasp The Moment

She nods, content with my answer, before fully immersing herself back into the movie.

Stretching as I walk down the main hall of our home, I smile at the minimalistic photos decorating the walls.

There are pictures from Mamá’s graduation to the photos that I took at the beginning of this year—my junior year in high school.

The guys on my team would kill to have that picture of me—especially since I had no idea it was picture day and had broken my newer glasses earlier that day, resulting in me wearing frames from middle school.

Chuckling lightly, I check the peephole and frown.

There’s no one there?—

A small wail breaks through my thoughts, and the world seems to tilt on its axis. I’ve seen videos like this on the internet. Predators will lure women out of their houses by using the sounds of babies crying—it’s sick and fucking twisted.

Picking up my hockey stick at the front door—the same one Mamá has been begging me to put in my room for the past month, I raise it in the air and begin a war cry as I open the door, only to pause.

The street is quiet; every house on the road is spaced out, but from here I can tell that none of my neighbors are out?—

The ear-splitting shriek of a newborn's wail captures my attention, and my eyes trail down slowly, resting on the crying bundle tucked away in a car seat on the step.

My heart plummets to the final pit of hell, my ears grow thick with a water-like sensation as the pink car seat rocks ever so slightly on the edge of the step—tilting.

“No!” I shout, dropping the hockey stick and running my ass off to catch the crying baby.

Mycrying baby.

Chewing on my bottom lip to suppress the water building in my eyes—I know the truth before I see it tucked away in the corner beside the baby's head.

This is my daughter—and she’s been left for dead on our doorstep.

My body jolts up. The air around me is too thick for my lungs to take in, and sweat beads down my forehead. I pat my body down, assessing myself, and then look to my right.

I’m in Deli’s bed…

Fuck.

I must’ve fallen asleep after reading her bedtime story to her…

Yawning, I stretch my arms. My eyes are still blurry from sleep and the lack of my glasses as I do my usual routine of reaching over and patting Delilah’s hair. Only I’m met with air instead of my daughter.

I’m out of the bed in an instant, my head on a swivel as I look for her mop of dark curls. Pulling my phone from my pocket, sweat beads against my temple as my eyes lock on the current time:

12:21 AM

My frown deepens as my cold feet hit the ground, carrying me to my own bedroom—only, it’s empty too.

Heart racing, I search everywhere in the bedroom for Georgia. If she isn’t in bed by this time, I’ve learned she’s either in the bathroom doing her skincare routine or in her closet working on a new piece.

When I find the closet empty, I halt in my tracks as a loud crashing sound comes from the kitchen.

What the hell…

Rushing out of the bedroom, past the living room, and into the kitchen, I come to a stop at the sight before me.

Delilah sits on the kitchen island, a cupcake the size of her head in her hands as she takes an enormous bite of the treat.

Georgia mimics my daughter's actions, taking a bite of her own equally huge cupcake.

I stop in the doorway as the two girls giggle, shushing one another as they continue eating.