I have been waking up before everybody else for as long as she could remember. Not ’cause I was trying to be responsible or anything like that, I just needed a little quiet before the day came for me. Those few minutes in the dark, when the house was still and nobody was calling her name, felt like the only time she actually belonged to herself.
But the second that alarm went off? That was it. Day started, and I wasn’t Lyric no more I was everybody’s something. Somebody needed help getting dressed. Somebody couldn’t find their shoes. Breakfast had to get made. And without fail, her mama would holler down the hallway, “Lyric! Come do Sariya’s hair! I ain’t got time this morning!”
There was always something. Always somebody. And somewhere along the way, I realized I hated mornings not ’cause they were early, but because they never gave me a chance to just be. 6:00 AM glowed red from the alarm clock beside my bed, that harsh little light cutting through the dark like it had something personal against her. I’d barely closed my eyes when it started screaming again, not my alarm, but the one in the next room. Mama’s.
Miracle was still knocked out next to her, breathing soft, curled up like she was six instead of eleven. Truth be told, Miracle acted younger than Sariya most days, and Sariya was only six. Three girls in one house, with me being the oldest to a single, working mama. Yeah, I wouldn’t recommend that life to nobody. Not with the way I’d somehow become everybody’s second mama before I even finished growing up myself.
I couldn’t even have my own room without one of them sneaking in during the night, climbing into my bed like I was the safest place in the whole house. Privacy wasn’t something I ever really had. Peace either.
Mama’s alarm kept blaring, loud enough to rattle the thin walls. Mama worked as a home health aide over at the nursing home. Long shifts, heavy lifting, folks needing her every second. Some days she was gone from six in the morning to six at night. Today she didn’t have to be in so early ’cause she’d picked up overtime the night before, but that didn’t change much for me. Mama was just leaving at 6 instead of the usual 5:30 in the morning cause it’s only a 30-minute drive to her workplace.
She’ll still have to get up. Still have to make breakfast. Still have to pack lunches and double‑check backpacks. Still have to make sure Miracle’s braids were neat and Sariya’s were actually still in because that girl had a habit of snatching her hair down whenever she got mad about something.
I sighed, staring at the ceiling for one last second.
Mama called out to me, voice cutting through the thin morning quiet like it always did. I answered without thinking, “Yes, ma’am,” her tone soft but tired.
A second later, Janet Daniels pushed open my bedroom door, still tying her work shoes, scrubs wrinkled from yesterday’s overtime shift. She didn’t step all the way in. She just leaned against the frame like she was already halfway out the house.
“I’m headed on in,” she said, eyes already scanning the room like she was checking off a list. “You come straight home after school, you hear me? I need you to watch your sisters. Make sure they do they homework, eat somethin’, and get in that bath before I get back.”
Her voice wasn’t mean, just worn, stretched thin from too many long shifts and too little help. But it still landed heavy on my shoulders like it I always did. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mama gave one more look that quick, sharp mama glance that said she expected everything to be handled then she was gone, keys jingling, front door closing behind her.
I sat up, rubbing my face, listening to the house settle back into silence for a few seconds. Then swung my legs out of bed and stood up, already moving through the motions of a day that wasn’t really mines.
Time to start breakfast. Time to wake Miracle and Sariya. Time to fix braids, pack lunches, find missing shoes.
Time to be everything everybody needed. Everything but who I wanted to be.
