Chapter 3: The Day Ms. Ramirez Disappeared

They didn't care about my life. They didn't care about Mom's threats.

I was just a bargaining chip, another way to keep Mom under control. My existence was never about me—it was about what I could do for them. I felt myself shrink.

They just wanted to enjoy having a pregnant woman around.

Pregnancy made Mom softer, more vulnerable. They loved it—the way she needed them, the way she couldn't run. It was never about family. It was always about power. I swallowed hard, wishing I could disappear.

Before I turned five, I had a nanny who was the only one who ever cared about me.

Her name was Ms. Ramirez, and she was the closest thing I ever had to a mother. She smelled like cinnamon and always wore her hair in a messy bun. She sang to me at night, tucked me in when thunder rattled the windows, and never let me feel alone, not even for a second. Her presence was a warm light in all that coldness.

She'd pick me up from preschool and stay up all night when I had a fever.

Her hands were cool and gentle, her voice soft as she read me stories. Sometimes, she'd sneak me cookies from the kitchen, whispering, "Don't tell anyone, Zoey. This is our secret."

She’d cover my ears when the dads said weird things, hugging me tight with tears in her eyes.

She always seemed to know when trouble was coming. She'd scoop me up, press my head to her chest, and hum lullabies until the shouting faded. I never understood why she cried, but I knew she loved me. Her arms felt like safety.

The day before she disappeared, I asked her softly,

It was raining outside, the kind of gentle, steady rain that made everything feel small and safe. I sat on the window seat, watching raindrops race each other down the glass, and turned to her with a question I'd been carrying for a long time.

"Ms. Ramirez, can I call you Mom?"

The words slipped out before I could stop them, soft and full of hope. My heart pounded in my chest.

She froze, then looked at me gently, her eyes deep with something I couldn't name.

There was a sadness in her eyes, a kind of longing that made my chest ache. She reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my forehead, her touch lingering a little longer than usual. I held my breath, waiting.

"Sweetie, I'm not your mom."

Her voice was so soft, almost apologetic. I wanted to argue, to tell her she was the only mom I knew, but the words got stuck in my throat. My hands curled into fists in my lap.

The next day, Dad let her go. No warning, no explanation. She was just... gone. Her room was empty. Her scent faded from the sheets. I searched the house for days, hoping she'd come back, but she never did.

The most important person in my world vanished without even a goodbye.