The day everything changed was supposed to be my birthday.
I was turning six.
At that age, birthdays feel like the most important day in the world. Other children had balloons, cakes, and families gathered around them singing happy birthday.
I didn't expect all of that.
But I hoped for something.
I woke up early that morning and decided I would make the day special by myself.
Our apartment was small, and the kitchen was even smaller. I had to drag a chair across the floor just to reach the counter. My hands were tiny, but I tried my best. I cooked food the way I had seen my mother do it.
Or at least, the way I thought she did it.
I prepared a small feast.
Nothing fancy, just bread, cheese, and a few things I had bought with the little money I had saved. I even bought tiny cupcakes from the store down the street.
We didn't have a birthday cake.
But I told myself cupcakes were just smaller cakes.
And smaller cakes were still cakes.
I placed everything carefully on the table and waited.
My mommy had promised she would come home early.
I made her promise.
So I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
The sun moved slowly across the sky until the room began to grow darker.
The cupcakes were no longer fresh.
The food had grown cold.
But I still waited.
Then the door opened.
My mommy stepped inside.
At first, I felt relieved.
But something was wrong.
She looked different.
Her hair was messy. Her eyes were heavy. And there was a strange smell around her.
A smell I didn't recognize back then.
Years later, I learned it was alcohol.
My mother rarely drank.
But that night, she had been drinking a lot.
I felt something hot rise inside my chest.
Anger.
I ran toward her and started pulling her hair.
"Why didn't you come?" I shouted.
"It's my birthday!"
She tried to calm me down.
"My little fairy," she said softly.
But this wasn't the first time she had missed my birthday.
It was the third time.
Other children had parties.
I had empty promises.
At school, the other kids called me names.
"The little bastard child."
I didn't know what those words meant, but they made something inside me feel small and dirty.
So I ran.
I ran out of the apartment and into the street.
Behind me, I heard my mother calling my name.
"Mariposa! Wait!"
She chased after me.
And then it happened.
A car appeared out of nowhere.
The headlights flashed across the road.
The sound of brakes screamed through the air.
My mother pushed me.
And the car hit her.
She fell to the ground.
There was blood.
Red everywhere.
For a moment, the world went completely silent.
I ran to her.
"Mommy!"
I shook her shoulders.
I called her name again and again.
But she didn't move.
The driver jumped out of the car. His face looked pale and frightened.
"We have to take her to the hospital," he said.
I don't remember the ride there.
Everything felt like a dream.
When we arrived, doctors rushed her into a room filled with bright lights.
The doors closed.
And I was left outside.
Alone.
I sat on the cold hospital floor and cried until my chest hurt.
Time moved strangely after that.
Minutes felt like hours.
Eventually, a nurse came out.
"Where is my mommy?" I asked.
"She's not dead," the nurse said gently.
"She's just sleeping."
I didn't understand.
How can someone sleep after being hit by a car?
"When will she wake up?" I asked.
The nurse looked at the other doctors.
"We don't know."
The driver apologized again and again. He said he would pay the hospital bills. He said it was an accident.
Then someone asked me a question.
"Where is your father?"
I stared at them.
"I don't know."
"What is his name?"
I didn't know that either.
My mother had never allowed me to ask about him.
"He is not a good person," she always said.
So I sat there.
A six-year-old girl.
In a hospital.
With no parents.
Eventually, the nurse told me I had to leave.
"You can't stay here," she said.
"But my mommy is here," I replied.
"You've already been here three nights."
Three nights.
But my mommy had been there longer.
How could I leave her?
The nurse didn't understand.
Maybe she forgot that I was only six years old.
I tried to sleep in the hallway anyway.
But she forced me to go.
So I walked home.
Alone.
I didn't even remember the way properly.
It took me almost four hours.
My legs hurt.
My knees were bleeding.
But eventually, I found the apartment.
I opened the door.
Everything looked exactly the same.
Except my mommy wasn't there.
I walked into my room.
And I lay down on the floor.
Then I cried until I had no tears left.
That was the night my childhood ended.
And I didn't even know it yet.