Chapter 3: The Orphan’s Prayer

I am an orphan.

That word still stings. It sounds so final, like the last page of a book.

Silver Hollow wasn’t much—just a scatter of houses, some with peeling paint, most with wind chimes on the porch. I remember the day I was shoved out the door, the foster mom tossing my duffel onto the cracked driveway, muttering about too many mouths to feed.

I always took up too much space—too many questions, too big an appetite, never quite fast enough to dodge a shove or a cold glare. The other kids called me "slowpoke" and worse.

She sat me down at the kitchen table, sunlight pooling on the faded tablecloth, and told me her story. In our town, folks whispered superstitions—called her names behind her back. She just smiled and called herself a survivor.

She took my hand in hers, her grip warm and steady, and told me I was her miracle—an answer to prayers spoken and unspoken. She made me believe I was meant to be there.

"You need a name that can go anywhere," she said, smoothing my hair with her calloused palm. "A name that’s just as at home in a big city as right here in Silver Hollow."

She’d say it every birthday, lighting a candle on a Hostess cupcake: "You don’t have to change the world, Bailey. Just be yourself, and know you’re loved."

I wore that love like a badge. Nothing could touch me as long as I had my parents—at least, that’s what I believed.

I’d cling to his neck, grinning at the world from up high, and holler out my favorite foods as Mom called from the kitchen. It was a little circus act all our own.

Some kids wanted candy or fries. I just wanted those green spears, grilled or steamed or pickled, any way she made them.

He’d let me steer the cart, laughing as I piled bunches in, the two of us squabbling over which ones were the freshest. It felt like a secret between us, the world’s simplest kind of happiness.

I’ve gone over it a hundred times—how every little thing leads to another, like dominoes. Guilt gnawed at me, even if I knew deep down it wasn’t fair.

It haunted me at night, lying awake staring at the ceiling. What if I’d asked for something else? Would Mom still be here?

She wore her perfume, the one with the faint gardenia notes, and even moved like her—almost perfectly. Almost.

I was just grateful for routine—her voice in the morning, her hand smoothing my hair at bedtime. I let myself believe in the impossible, because it was easier than facing the truth.

It was in the way she slammed the fridge door, the way her smile never quite reached her eyes. I felt a chill in my bones, a warning I couldn’t ignore.

Those words cut deep—like they’d been plucked from some place of spite, not love. It wasn’t my mother. It couldn’t be.

He tried to keep the peace, putting on a brave face even as the world cracked at the edges.

He took her by the elbow, guiding her away from me, his voice gentle but strained. "Let’s talk, okay?"

I caught a glimpse of something wild and desperate in him, like a cornered animal. It scared me almost as much as the angel.

I pressed my forehead to my knees, rocking back and forth as the sounds of shouting and breaking glass spilled into the night. Through the cracks in the porch boards, I saw my father raise the bat—his hands shaking, eyes blazing. Dad’s bat hit the wall with a crack, dust raining down from the ceiling.

It was like watching someone try to stop a tornado with nothing but hope. He was brave, but he was only human.

She tossed him aside like a rag doll, rage burning in her eyes. Our home—the place that held all our memories—crumbled in an instant, rooms collapsing into dust and ashes.

She looked down at us, sneering: "A woman who can’t have kids—what kind of mother is that supposed to be? I sent her to heaven early, and you dare raise a hand at me for her? Ungrateful fool. I’m an angel, and you—a mortal—think you can challenge heaven? I let you serve me, and that’s a blessing. Don’t want it? I’ll send your whole family to reunite in fire."

Her words rang out, cold and arrogant. She looked down at us as if we were nothing, her voice sharp enough to cut bone. I felt anger boil inside me, helpless and hot.

I watched his body crumple, red staining the front of his shirt. I wanted to run to him, but my legs wouldn’t move. My hands shook so bad I couldn’t even cover my ears. I wanted to run, but my legs felt bolted to the porch.

She swept out the front door, the air shimmering in her wake, not even glancing back at the mess she’d made. The sun rose on a home hollowed out by grief.

I lay awake, the shadows on the ceiling dancing with my doubts. Did angels really care for us? Or were we just playthings in their hands, easily broken and just as easily forgotten?