“Mrs. Hart, we don’t condone this kind of behavior,” Mr. Harris, my principal, says from the other side of his desk.

“What kind of behavior would that be?” Mom asks, raising an eyebrow as she stares down my principal.

“Violence.” He shifts in his chair as the fluorescent light above him hits his slicked back auburn hair.

“Do you consider sticking up for someone violence?” she retorts, and I pinch my lips together to keep from smiling at her words. “My daughter was helping someone who was being bullied. I think that’s admirable.”

Mr. Harris’s nose wrinkles, his eyes shifting between Mom and me. “Not when fists are involved.”

I was on my way to my locker before fifth period when I saw Stacy, the school bully, push Beatrice against a locker. Beatrice is quiet and timid. She excels at every assignment, and Stacy is lucky to squeak by with a passing grade.

As soon as I saw Stacy knock Beatrice into the lockers, I marched over to them, passing my locker on the way.

Stacy threw a stack of papers in her hands at Beatrice as I stopped in front of them, the papers floating to the ground at my feet.

“Leave her alone,” I demanded.

Stacy gave me a once over with her hand on her hip. “Mind your own business, freak.”

I stared at Stacy, unwavering, taking a step closer. “Back off.”

Stacy turned away from me and shoved Beatrice in the shoulder, causing her head to hit the locker behind her.

All I could see was my dad hitting Mom all over again. Someone bigger picking on someone half their size.

I shoved Stacy away from Beatrice, and she growled under her breath. Her hand moved up, and she pushed me backwards, and I staggered on my feet. Before I had a chance to think, I raised my fist and slammed it in her face as hard as I could.

She cried out in pain as soon as three teachers came running down the hall. I was escorted to Mr. Harris’s office where I waited for Mom to get here.

Mom crosses her arms, waiting for whatever else Mr. Harris is going to say.

“Suspension. Three days,” he informs us, leaning away from his desk.

Mom scoffs. “Well you might be suspending her, but I won’t punish her.” She stands from her chair, and I do the same. “In fact, I would tell her to do it all over again.”

Mr. Harris doesn’t say a word as we leave his office, slamming the door behind us.

Mom and I walk out of the school without so much as a word. I struggle to keep up with her long strides as we weave through the school parking lot. But Mom slows her pace as we reach the faculty parking lot. Each spot is labeled, the concrete painted with the teacher’s name whose car is parked there.

She veers away from the visitor parking lot until she’s standing next to Mr. Harris’s car. Her eyes scan the parking lot as I move to stand next to her.

“Mom, what are you doing?” I hiss.

“Hush,” she whispers as she yanks her car keys out of her purse.

She holds our silver house key between her thumb and pointer finger and drags the key across the passenger side door of Mr. Harris’s car.

“Mom,” I gasp, slapping a hand over my mouth.

She glares at me over her shoulder as the key screams against the metal door of the car. The key chips away at the shiny black paint, leaving a long scratch across the door.

She steps away from the car and heads in the direction of the visitor parking lot. I stand in place, wondering what the hell she just did.

“Jade, come on,” she says over her shoulder as she walks away like nothing happened.

I follow behind her, my eyes wide as I hold my backpack on my shoulder so it doesn’t slip.

She unlocks our car and waits for me to appear by her side. When I reach her, she hands me the keys as she slides in the passenger side seat.

After rushing around the front of the car, I jump in, tossing my bag in the back.

“Mom,” I say, shaking my head, not sure what to say to her.

She turns her body to me. “I’m proud of you for sticking up for that girl. Not everyone would do that.” She lifts her hand to my face, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “That was me sticking up for you.” She beams, and I mimic her action. “Now drive us home, but don’t kill us. I know you barely passed your driving test yesterday.”

It’s true. I couldn’t parallel park or back into a parking spot. I’m surprised I passed at all. “Thank you,” I say, turning on the car.

“You don’t need to thank me, honey. I’ll always be in your corner…no matter what.”

My eyes snap open as tears stream down my face.

It was only a dream, I tell myself.

I fist the covers in my hands, squeezing my eyes shut. My body jerks as I cry harder, the sound echoing through my room. I don’t have Mom in my corner anymore. I don’t have her to fight for me, and I can’t fight for her.

What am I going to amount to now that I have nothing?

I wipe my face and rub my temples, the inside of my head pounding louder than a jackhammer. My body aches, every muscle sore from the amount of crying I’ve done since I got home.

I don’t even know what day it is, or how long it’s been since Mom left this earth.

I roll to my side, my hand landing on a piece of paper, and I notice my phone with a broken screen next to it. I pick up the piece of paper and blink several times, allowing my eyes to focus.

I had to leave. I’m sorry. Call me if you need anything. –Hudson

I crumble up the note in my hand, letting it fall to the floor.

My eyes scan my room, taking in the drawings and photographs hanging on the walls.

This is all I have left–pictures.

In each photograph, I’m attached to my mom’s side like I never want to let her go.

There’s one of me clinging to her neck when I was five-years-old as she cradled me in her arms. I’m crying in the picture, tears rolling down my face. I had fallen off a stool in the kitchen and hit my chin on the hardwood floor. She picked me up off the ground and told me everything would be okay, and I hugged her neck, willing the stinging on my chin to subside.

I’m not entirely sure who took the picture, but the day I found it hidden away in a beat up cardboard box, I framed it and put it in my room.

I wanted it to remind me that she’s the one who has always been there–the one who can make everything infinitely better. But not anymore…because she’s gone.

She’s not here to pick up the pieces. I have to do it all on my own.

I throw my legs over my bed and stare at my room. Everything on the walls hurts. The photographs and drawings slice me open, reminding me of what I don’t have. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want the reminder when my body is fighting so hard to keep going.

I shove away from the bed and stomp to the wall across from me. I rip each drawing from the wall, tearing them in half and throwing them to floor. I claw at the wall, taking everything within reach down.

My body shakes as I rid the wall of my art, not caring what I’m destroying. I head toward the photograph of me crying in Mom’s arms and take the frame off the wall. My thumb runs over her face and down her rich brown hair.

Why didn’t she fight? Why did she give up when she had the chance to live?

I hate her.

I clutch the frame, my knuckles white.

I hate her for abandoning me.

I throw the picture across the room. It hits the opposite wall with a bang, and the glass shatters at the contact as the broken frame falls to the ground.

I sink to the floor, landing on my butt. I lay down on my side and curl into myself, gripping my knees to my chest, willing the ache ripping through me to stop.