Dorothy Silva

Face Without a Name Dorothy Silva

Standing in the doorway, crying for my mom with arms outstretched, wiggling my fingers, suggesting that she must fetch me, as she was walking towards the car. "I want to go with," I screamed, but she just carried on walking. My sister, Jean, held me back. I hated her in that moment, because I thought if she did not hold me so tight, I could have made a run for it and gone with my mom. My mom reached the car, opened the door, turned around, and paused for a moment. As she stood there looking back, I thought she was going to say, "Come!" but she did not. She turned, got in, closed the door, and the car pulled away.