The First Star at Twilight

by Sophia Krich-Brinton

It felt like an eternity, rather than twelve months, before I finally found him. My entire life had become the hunt, begging for scraps of information: Which social worker, which elementary school, which town? He was only six. It shouldn’t be this hard.

It started when my little girl died, quiet and blue in her crib. His endless questions had landed like punches on my skull, and I didn’t answer—couldn’t answer. Talking made it too real. Cradling a bottle as if it were a child, I passed the days limp on the couch. Armas brought me toaster waffles that I wouldn’t eat and wiped my face when I couldn’t stop crying, watching me fade from his mother to a weak, sobbing stranger.

I stole his childhood. I deserved to lose him.

They took him on his fifth birthday. One of his teachers had told him the date; I hadn’t remembered. He screamed as they carried him out the door, kicking the social worker as if that could turn back time and change me back into a functional parent. Then he was gone.

It took me months to get sober. Months more to stay that way. Then I started looking.

Finding him was supposed to be easy. I’d always heard they aimed to reunite a family, but people hedged, said he was happier now, healthier, that I should wait and see if sobriety would stick.

I fingered the folded picture I kept in my jeans pocket, taken when he was four and still had laughter in his eyes. Light brown hair, freckles across his sun-gold cheeks, wide blue eyes smiling right into the camera. My baby. Beside him lay my little girl, her eyes gently closed in sleep. She’d died three weeks after I took this picture.

Bending forward, I tried to breathe through the gagging sorrow. I’d found him. I’d chased the latest rumor for miles, hiking up dirt roads and crossing wide, flat fields. Now I stood across the street from the town’s only elementary school. The hunt was over, and soon my child would be back in my arms. I could almost feel him.

Craving worse than anything I’d ever felt shivered through me. I needed my son. 

Adults appeared from here and there, strolling toward the school. A few shot me the tired smile of parents everywhere. I pulled out a battered paperback and pretended to read, avoiding their glances as tears blurred my eyes. How I ached for that sweet, end-of-day exhaustion.

A bell rang across the street as the school doors opened. Children exploded out, their small voices ringing in the brisk air, dripping coats and scarves behind them. Did Armas have a scarf? I didn’t know.

I stuffed the book in my backpack and squinted at the mass of children. A year was a long time. Would I recognize him? I blocked the sun with one hand, trying to pick him out.

Then I saw him, like the first star at twilight. He walked with his chin up, his smile wider than I’d seen in years. He must have smiled like that, before. He must have. He seemed so sure of himself, hopping down the steps and onto the sidewalk where a cluster of adults waited.

I wanted to run to him. I couldn’t move. I needed to call out, Armas, Mama’s here! But my mouth opened and closed, and I couldn’t make a sound.

A woman with brown curly hair opened her arms, and he ran to her. She hugged him and kissed the top of his head, saying something that made him laugh. Hand in hand, they walked away down the block, him hopping on one foot, then the other. She pulled him close and kissed him. He rubbed it off and she laughed again.

I followed them to a Taco Bell two blocks away. I got in line as they reached the counter. Three people between us. If Armas turned around, he’d see me. Would he know me?

The woman bent down to speak to him. I leaned in so I could hear, bumping the person ahead of me.

“Do you want a crunchy taco or a soft shell? You had the soft taco supreme last time.”

“I want that again,” Armas answered. His voice was high, still a child’s. It rang like bells in my chest, echoing against my lungs. I caught my breath, held it.

The woman leaned on the counter. “I’ll have the chicken enchilada burrito and two cinnamon twists. He wants a soft taco supreme.”

I wobbled on suddenly weak muscles as relief washed through me. She’d used the correct pronouns. The ones he’d asked for as soon as he could speak. Even the social worker refused, but this woman hadn’t even paused. She saw Armas for who he was. She respected him.

I stepped out of line as they picked up their order. Someone asked if I was okay, but I barely heard them. My son was safe with this person. My beautiful, gentle boy was shoving a soft taco in his mouth while gushing about the chicks his class was raising. The woman across from him wore a smile of pure enjoyment.

He deserved this life. He didn’t have to remember that he’d started somewhere else, with someone else.

Shoving my fists in my pockets, I pushed out the door, blinded by tears.

Maybe I’d wait at the school again tomorrow, see him one more time.

If they walked to Taco Bell again, I could listen to them talk.

I wouldn’t take this new life away from him, but maybe I could say hello.

Maybe tomorrow.

BIO: Sophia Krich-Brinton (she/they) lives in Colorado with her partner, kids, and cats. They write weird stories at dawn when the world sleeps and the cats try to sit on her keyboard. Her work has appeared or is upcoming in HAD, Ghost Light Lit, and Moss Puppy Magazine. When not writing, she boxes, plays the banjo, and goes backpacking. Find them at sophiakbrinton.com or on Twitter/Instagram at @sophiakb_writes