Loss is a Four-Letter Word

This story is by Katy Bell and was part of our 2025 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Sophia trudged through the shallow puddle on the corner of Elm Street. As the drops cascaded over her boots, she felt tears gather on her lashes and fall silently down her pale cheeks. 

No one knew. 

Not my husband, not my parents, and certainly not little Angelica. What would she do if she discovered this? No. It is mine to bear. Alone. I will hold him in the deepest corner of my heart and never tell another soul.

Sophia quietly pushed against the early afternoon traffic on her way home from the doctor’s office. One year ago today, she had felt her world tilting early in the morning and urged Nonna and Opa to watch her daughter as she rushed to the clinic, only 4 blocks away. 

One year ago today, she had held the remains of her child, a boy- Samuel, she decided. A small voice had stirred in her heart as she held him, and no other name seemed to fit. 

An autumn breeze shifted her limp curls, leftover from yesterday’s dinner. Mere hours ago, her family had been all joy and laughter, smile lines overtaking every familiar face as they celebrated her daughter’s 13th birthday. The girl had been watching her mother closely last year, quietly observing small changes to their routine. As young as Angie had been, Sophia didn’t think the girl actually suspected a pregnancy. It had been too early to announce to anyone. Sophia hadn’t even had the chance to tell her husband before he had been deployed overseas. It was over before she knew it, and instead of allowing the pain to travel the distance between them, she stuffed it down deep. It would only multiply if she spoke it aloud. She couldn’t do that to him. He needed to be careful, not worry about something that couldn’t be undone.

At least he doesn’t have to mourn with me, Sophia thought as she rounded the corner to her apartment. A year’s weight of grief held by her shoulders alone. Slowly, the sounds from the world around her buzzed into focus. She tried to scrub the evidence of her sorrow from her face as honking and animated language emanated from the road to her right. Her tired eyes glanced over the bricks of her home, catching movement through the upstairs window.

Angelica’s head popped over the sill, curls bouncing around cherub cheeks. “Mamma, you’re back! I’m headed to Nonna’s to make chicken catch-tory!” A crooked grin shone down on Sophia, warming the ache in her chest. How could she grieve when she was already so blessed with her ray of sunshine?

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she called up after her, “Cacciatore, amorina.” Angie shook her curls and overpronounced her favorite dish again, gesticulating fervently to the street below, a carbon copy of her Sicilian grandmother who lived just two streets down.

“Come in out of the street, Mamma. You’ll catch cold in this weather.” Sophia pulled her key from her fraying handbag and felt the lock click as a sigh escaped her lips. She mustn’t see the damage; I’ll have to be careful. 

Sophia shut the door behind her and breathed out all the sadness from her lungs as the noise from the street faded behind the solid oak. Propping herself up on the door, she kicked off her boots, not bothering to lay them neatly beside the entry rug. A joyful galloping down the stairs and then a mess of strawberry curls bounded into view. Sophia swallowed the girl in her arms, soaking in the love as best she could before her daughter abruptly pulled back. 

“Did you eat lunch while you were out? I will bring you back some chicken. Nonna said I could help with the sauce this time.” Angie slipped on her own jacket and dashed out the door almost before Sophia could plant a kiss on her curls.

“Look both ways before you cross the street. And make sure to thank Nonna for letting you cook with her.” She called after her, watching the girl walk briskly toward the street corner. 

“Yes, Mamma! Ti amo,” Angelica blew her a kiss before disappearing around the bend. 

Sophia felt a sad smile spread across her lips. “Ti amo, amorina,” she whispered to the empty entryway. ______________________________________________________________________________

As Angie returned home, she carefully ascended the steps to the front door, shifting her home-cooked meal under her left arm and fishing for her key with her right. The lock clicked, and she shoved her way into the foyer. Before she could call out that she made it home safely, a pair of voices travelled down the hall. Was Babbo home already? He had to work late most nights since he returned home. Angie shucked off her shoes silently and tiptoed toward the kitchen, shaking the mist from her curls, straining to hear the murmured conversation.

Why was she sneaking? Normally, she would run into Babbo’s arms as soon as he had come home from the base, but Angie felt the shift in the air around her. Something was wrong. She could hear it in the hushed voices of her parents, the sound of the kettle on the stove, feel it in her chilled toes as they gripped the well-worn carpet. 

A chair scraped the kitchen floor as her father stood, “…you didn’t say…You told me everything was fine last year. I wish–I wish you had said something…”

Babbo’s voice was muffled as if his back was to the kitchen door, but Angie could hear the sadness creeping in. 

She peeked around the corner to see Babbo with his face in his hands, her mother crumpled in the chair across the table, hair hiding her face. A crumpled handkerchief poked out of Mamma’s tight fist. 

“Why are you crying, Mamma?” Angie’s voice sounded small, even to her. A rustle in the dark locks as her mother lifted her head. 

“Oh, amorina, I didn’t know you were home.” A quick scrub across both cheeks with her handkerchief, attempting to erase the grief her daughter had already witnessed etched along her features. Angie’s heart scrunched seeing her mamma’s tears wet that pretty cloth. Her feet surged forward, before freezing uncertain in the middle of the kitchen floor. Angie felt her own voice start to waver. 

“Please don’t cry, Mamma. Everything will be alright.” She dropped to the cold tile, abandoning her hesitation and wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist. Angie was relieved to feel the familiar caress on her back and over her curls. The simple yet loving motions set her lungs at ease, and the tightness around her heart began to dissipate.

Peering into her mamma’s face, the adolescent saw something deeper than hurt and wider than sadness in what were usually the warmest brown eyes Angelica had ever beheld. While still warm, the fire had seemed to dim, and it no longer burned as brightly. “Mamma?” she whispered. Her mother lifted her eyes to her husband, who crouched down beside little Angelica.

“Cara mia,” her father started, a hand on her shoulder, “you have a little brother.” Mamma melted beneath her daughter, and Angie turned to face her father fully. 

“A brother?” Her eyes widened to saucers, and her father’s took on an unfamiliar softness. 

“Si, Angelica. A baby boy.” 

Confusion muddled her brain as her face tried to form a smile and somehow failed. This was happy news, wasn’t it? Why was Mamma crying? And why was Babbo looking so sad, so unlike himself? 

“Where is he? Where is my brother?” Angelica felt a new worry start in her chest, but before she could sniffle again, her mother’s soft voice drew her back. 

“He is with Jesus,” she whispered. “Jesus has called him home.” Another tear spilled down her cheek. Angelica felt the truth vibrate under her skin and reached up to wipe away the drop. 

“He is in heaven, you mean?” 

A sad smile. “Yes, amore.” 

Angie smiled back, small but certain. “Then he will watch over us.”

Angie watched as the final wall crumbled away behind her parents’ eyes, and a new spark of hope shone through, casting out the dark.