Seven-year-old Mia sat on the edge of the playground, her knees pulled to her chest. Around her, children laughed and played, their voices echoing through the crisp autumn air. She didn’t join them. She never did.140Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyH25nPwHwd
When a soccer ball rolled toward her, she kicked it into the bushes, ignoring the shouts of the boy who came running after it. “Why’d you do that?” he demanded, red-faced.
“Because I felt like it,” Mia snapped, her eyes sharp and defiant.
The boy scowled but backed away, muttering to himself. That was always how it went. Mia’s anger was a shield, a wall she’d built around herself, and it worked. No one got too close.
At home, walls couldn’t save her.
The apartment was small, cluttered with piles of laundry and empty bottles that clinked when her mother stumbled past. Her mom wasn’t always this way. Once, she’d been warm, full of hugs and bedtime stories. But that was before Dad left, before the long hours at the diner, before exhaustion turned her into someone Mia barely recognized.
“Mia, I told you to clean up your room!” her mom yelled from the kitchen, the sharp sound of a bottle slamming against the counter punctuating her words.
“I did!” Mia lied, retreating into her room and slamming the door. Her heart pounded as she sat on her bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. The walls here weren’t enough, either.
The next day at school, her teacher, Ms. Reed, knelt beside her desk. “Mia, I noticed you’ve been upset lately. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” Mia said, not looking up.
Ms. Reed didn’t push. Instead, she placed a small clay pot on Mia’s desk. Inside was a tiny sprout, its delicate green leaves reaching toward the light. “We’re starting a gardening project,” Ms. Reed said. “You can take care of this one. Plants need care and patience, just like people.”
Mia rolled her eyes but didn’t protest. At recess, she hid the pot in her backpack, certain she’d forget about it by the time she got home.
But she didn’t forget. That night, as her mom slept on the couch, Mia found herself staring at the little plant. Its leaves quivered slightly in the drafty room, and for a moment, she felt a pang of something unfamiliar. Guilt? Responsibility?
She fetched a glass of water and poured a tiny amount into the soil. “There,” she muttered. “Happy?”
Over the weeks, the sprout grew. So did Mia’s care for it. She found herself talking to it sometimes, whispering secrets she couldn’t tell anyone else. “I hate my mom,” she said one night, then immediately felt ashamed. “I mean, I don’t. But I hate how she is now.”
The plant didn’t judge. It just kept growing.
One afternoon, during art class, a classmate named Lily accidentally bumped Mia’s desk, sending her drawing to the floor. “Sorry!” Lily said, reaching to pick it up.
“Don’t touch it!” Mia snapped, snatching the paper away.
Lily’s face fell, but instead of walking away, she hesitated. “That’s really good,” she said softly. “You’re good at drawing.”
Mia blinked, caught off guard. No one ever complimented her work. She didn’t know how to respond, so she just mumbled, “Thanks,” and turned back to her sketch.
Lily didn’t leave, though. She sat down beside Mia and started drawing, too. They didn’t talk much, but the silence between them felt… okay.
At home, the little plant was thriving. Its leaves were fuller, its stem sturdy. Mia had even moved it to the windowsill, where it could get more light. She felt proud of it, in a way she didn’t fully understand.
One night, as she watered it, her mom shuffled into the room. “What’s that?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“A plant. For school.”
Her mom squinted at it, then at Mia. “Looks good. You’re taking care of it.”
Mia didn’t reply, but her mom’s words stayed with her. It had been a long time since anyone at home noticed anything she did.
The next day at school, Lily invited Mia to sit with her at lunch. For the first time in ages, Mia didn’t eat alone. The sharpness in her chest, the thorn she’d carried for so long, began to loosen just a little.
Mia wasn’t sure what was changing. The plant? Lily? Maybe both. But for the first time, she felt like she didn’t have to fight so hard to keep people away. Maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want to.
The thorn wasn’t gone yet, but Mia realized something important: even thorns could grow into something beautiful with enough care.140Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWpo6ABNbSd
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