The Space Between: Watching for Her

After that first visit, nothing dramatic happened.

No one explained anything.
Life just kept going.

We went back to daycare.
Back to being dropped off.
Back to being picked up — when it happened.

I didn’t know I was adjusting.
I didn’t know I was learning something.

I just learned to watch.

I learned to watch doors.
To listen for cars.
To notice when adults moved fast and didn’t look back.

Sometimes my mom would leave us.

She didn’t tell us where she was going.
She didn’t tell us when she’d be back.

My brother and I would stand at the window.

Not for a little while.
For what felt like forever.

Crying.
Waiting.
Watching the street like it was the only thing that mattered.

Every car made my chest jump.
Every car that passed made my stomach drop lower.

I remember my face pressed against the glass, my hands flat, my breath making cloudy circles that faded too fast. I remember my legs hurting but staying there anyway — afraid that if I sat down, she would come back and not see us waiting.

We didn’t know what to do.

So we stayed still.

We learned how to wait without moving.
How to stay quiet so nothing got worse.
How to stand close enough to feel each other breathing.

Sometimes she came back like nothing had happened.
Sometimes she came back angry.
Sometimes she acted like we were wrong for crying, like we had done something bad.

So we learned.

We learned not to cry as hard.
Not to ask where she went.
Not to ask when she’d be back.

I didn’t know words like fear or abandonment.
I didn’t know what neglect meant.

I just knew this was how things worked.

There was a strange comfort in knowing what to expect — even when what to expect was waiting.

No one taught us how to talk about being scared.
No one taught us how to ask for comfort.

We learned something else instead.

We learned how to hold everything inside.

We learned how to stay alert without looking upset.
How to love people who disappeared.
How to stop expecting answers.

Looking back, I can see it clearly now.

That first visit didn’t just introduce us to prison.
It taught us how to live without safety.

Years later, I would learn there’s a name for moments like that — The Space Between.

The place where children learn how to take care of themselves long before they should have to.

At the time, it was just life.