The Last Stop

The bus jolts to a stop, and I wake myself up from what was almost sleep. Surely, I’m the last one on the bus tonight, I think. I look away from the bus window and see a woman getting on with a little girl who looks no more than six years old. Too young to still be awake 30 minutes before the bus stops running.

Before she sits down, I notice that the girl’s face is stained with tears that show faintly on her beautiful bubblegum dress. The gift bag in her tiny hands that reads ‘Emelia and Daniel’ is crumpled, almost to the point where the wedding ring print is not visible. The woman–her mother, I assume–is not dressed up like her daughter. She has no gift bag, either. She seems pretty tired, and it shows through her messy bun and sweatpants. I reach for my earbuds because I don’t want to invade the limited privacy the bus provides for them.

“Does daddy still love me?” The young girl breaks the silence, and I see the woman look down at her with a worried expression. I can’t help but watch the conversation unfold. 

“Of course he does, sweetheart. That’s silly. You’re his little girl, and nothing can ever take that away. What makes you think he doesn’t?” In response, the daughter turns her body away from the woman and crosses her arms.

“He told her ‘I love you’ in front of everybody.” There is a pause. “Does daddy not love you, too?” I hear the little girl’s voice quiver, and I wonder what could have happened to worry a child so small as this. Curious, I keep my earbuds in my hand and watch the trees pass by out the window.

“Daddy loves Emelia now because she’s his wife, but that doesn’t change how much he loves you. We still care for each other because we both care for you.”

“I don’t like her,” she says, both pouty and fragile.

“Why not? You have so much fun with Emelia.” The mother’s voice carries both exhaustion and comfort.

“Because she’s not you. I don’t want her to take you from me.” The daughter’s plea pulls my gaze back up to them.

“Oh, baby, come here.” The woman gently takes the girl into her arms and kisses her forehead. “Nothing in this world can take me away from you. I will always be your mom, no matter what. You should enjoy spending time with her.” She fixes one of her little but neat curls. 

After an oddly comfortable silence, the child looks up and asks, “Can I have ice cream?”

The mother pauses and then smiles. “Sure,” she nods. “When we get home.”