She sits by the window.

Waiting, watching.

She holds her breath each time a car passes.

Her tiny hand clutches the strap to her backpack,

Containing a birthday card she made for him,

And the hats she made so they can celebtate their birthdays together.

Mommy watches too.

But her vigilance gives way to anger.

Her anger grows as her small daughter grow more anxious.

The clock strikes ten, the little girl keeps watch.

Soon cars stop driving by, nothing comes up the drive. Her eyes grow heavy with tears; she is worried he is hurt.

But Mommy shakes her head,

With a sigh takes the backpack away from the girl. Off to bed, the girl leaves on her jeans, her small bag placed

by the door in case he comes.

Mommy watches as her daughter sleeps.

Mommy is angry with him again, not because he is late,

But because every other weekend she watches as her small child’s hopes are crushed,

Because this was their birthday weekends, his and hers, only a day apart.

She turns away from the slumbering child, down the hall.

She sits by the window,

Waiting, watching.