For weeks, Lala had treated nighttime like a secret mission. The moment the sky turned deep blue and the crickets began their chorus, she would quietly slip behind the door, peek through the curtain, and watch her mom prepare to go out. Shoes on, phone in hand, keys jingling—every sound made Lala’s heart race. She didn’t want to be seen. She didn’t want to ask questions. Somehow, Mom going out at night made Lala feel small and uneasy, like something important was happening without her.
At first, Lala hid because she was afraid. Afraid that Mom was leaving because she was upset. Afraid that nights were dangerous. Afraid that if she asked, the answers would be too grown-up to understand. So Lala chose hiding. She curled up with her stuffed toy, pretending not to notice, while secretly counting the minutes until Mom returned.
But one night, something changed.
That evening, Mom didn’t rush. She sat beside Lala, brushed her hair gently, and smiled in that soft way that made worries feel lighter. “I’ll be back soon,” she said. “I’m just helping someone tonight.” Her voice was calm, steady, full of warmth. Lala looked up, surprised. No mystery. No secrecy. Just honesty.
After Mom left, Lala didn’t hide. She waited.
When Mom finally came home, tired but smiling, she told Lala about her night—how she checked on a neighbor, how she helped a friend, how she worked late so things at home could be better tomorrow. Lala listened quietly, her fear slowly melting into understanding. Mom wasn’t disappearing. She was caring, loving, and working—even in the dark hours.
From that night on, Lala stopped hiding.
Instead, she stood at the door to say goodbye. She waved. Sometimes she hugged Mom extra tight. She realized that night wasn’t something to fear, and Mom going out didn’t mean being left behind. It meant trust.
Lala learned that love doesn’t always stay in one place. Sometimes, it steps into the night—only to come back home again, brighter than before.
