“Don’t Leave Me Here, Mom”

My name is Sofia. I am twenty‑two years old. I have Down syndrome. But I’m always the first to say: I’m not just that. I’m also a good artist — I draw, and I draw well. I make the world’s best pancakes on lazy Saturday mornings. And I know how to listen when someone is sad — really listen, heart to heart.

Still, today… today I feel as though being Sofia is not enough.

This morning I find myself in a large, sterile room. Everything is white: the walls gleam under bright lights. The scent of bleach is thick in the air, trailing an echo of antiseptic and something I can only call fear. Voices bounce off the walls, sharp and hollow, hurting my ears like small stones rattling in an empty tin.

My legs tremble even though I’m sitting. In my lap lies my well‑worn, pink backpack — the same one I’ve carried since high school. Inside is Toto, my tattered little teddy bear. Mama told me I should bring him, for comfort. I clutch him tight now, though he’s soft, ragged, and smells of years of love.

I stare down at the polished floor, toes tracing invisible patterns on the vinyl. My breathing catches as I muster the courage to speak.

“Mama? Where’s my mom?” I whisper softly to the woman in the white coat who is sitting a few feet away, scribbling in a notebook. Her expression is distant, businesslike.

“She’s coming soon, Sofia,” she says, though her voice sounds flat, practiced.

I swallow hard. No. I know she’s not coming. I’ve known since last night. I lay awake half‑hiding behind the curtains, listening to Mama’s conversation with my aunt through the thin walls.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Mama had said, her voice choked. “I’m so tired. Sofia will be better off at the institute, where they can take care of her all day. I can’t keep doing this…”

I pressed my hands over my ears, but I still heard. Her words cut into me, sharp like a knife scraping bone.

Now, she stands in the doorway. Mama’s eyes are swollen, red‑rimmed, like two moons about to fade.

“Mommy—can we go now?” I ask, voice small. “I promise I won’t bother you. I’ll clean my room. I’ll help in the kitchen. I’ll behave.”

She kneels down to me, her hand trembling as it strokes my hair. I feel the warmth of her fingers, but I also feel her fear, exhaustion.

“Sofi, mi amor… this place… it is good for you,” she says, voice trembling with sadness. “Here, you will have friends. Games. People to take care of you.”

My heart pounds in my chest. I clutch her waist—just like when I was little and afraid of the dark. I can feel her tears threatening to fall.

“But I already have everything with you,” I say, voice wavering. “Please don’t leave me here.” My arms tighten around her.

Mama presses her lips against my forehead, hard, as if planting my scent in her memory. She looks into my eyes with so much pain that I think she might also crumble. But then she stands and turns toward the door.

“Mama!” I scream, trying to free myself from the man holding me back. “Mama!”

She doesn’t turn. Not once.

I stayed there, trembling, staring at the now‑empty hallway, still sure she’d return any second. But she didn’t.

Days crawled by. I sat every morning near the window, watching the empty hallway, convinced she’d burst in, arms wide, smiling. All the way home we’d go, hand in hand.

Still, she never came.

Two Weeks In

I’m starting to keep count of the days now. Days! How many days have I already been here? I don’t know. My heart hurts from wanting. The voices in the halls sharpen; I hear them whispering about routines and medications and schedules—but they never say Mama’s name.

In my little bed here, I close my eyes tightly at night and see her face, and she’s crying. Her tears fall onto my cheeks. And I cry too, but when I wake up the pillow is dry. The sun slips in through the blinds, dazzling me with morning light that hurts my eyes.

I miss the smell of our apartment, our kitchen. The sound of Mama humming while she cooks. The way she’d braid my hair into two neat braids. The way we’d sit on the couch and she’d ask me about my day, even when I told her the same stories again and again. I miss holding her hand and falling asleep next to her.

Here, they call me “patient number 27,” or “Sofia, with Down syndrome.” They usher me along, from one activity to another. People smile, but they don’t look at me like Mama looks at me—with love, without pity.

I still draw in my notebook, but the lines seem empty without her to show them to. I make pancakes in my mind, imagining their sweet smell and taste, but I have no flour, no milk. Just dreams.

One Month In

Today, something unexpected happened.

It’s lunchtime. I’m sitting at a small table with a few other people. They’re talking, but I don’t understand all their words. Some are nice. Some distract me with small talk. I hold Toto in my lap.

The cook brings plates of food. I think it’s something called pasta. I miss Mama’s special pancakes, but I eat anyway. The sauce is okay.

At the end of the table, a young woman with soft eyes — one of the staff — looks at me kindly.

“Would you like to help with the art activity later, Sofía?” she asks softly.

My heart skips. Art! I love drawing. I nod.

Later, I sit before a blank piece of paper, surrounded by colored pencils. My hands feel calm. I draw a big, tall tree, with leaves like hearts, and a little girl standing next to it, holding a teddy bear close. I draw the sky blue, and the sun smiling down. I sign it: “By Sofía.”

When I finish, the woman comes over. She pauses, and says, “You’re really talented.”

I feel something bloom inside me — a small spark of hope. Someone sees me. Not just my diagnosis. But me, the artist, the dreamer.

That night, I lie on my bed, and I draw Mama in my notebook. She is smiling. And I’m hugging her tight.

Two Months In

They say progress. They say routines help. They tell Mama it’s better this way. But I don’t know. Every night I still sit by the window, waiting. Waiting for her footsteps. Waiting for her voice.

Last night, I heard someone crying. Not me — her. I recognized the sound. But I stayed quiet. I wanted to go find her. I wanted to say, “I am here! Don’t leave me here!” But I didn’t. I was too tired.

Here they teach me to be independent. To dress myself. To eat on my own. To be part of the group. I can do that. I’m capable.

The art room is my refuge. I’ve made a friend or two who sit beside me and share crayons. We laugh softly. I teach them to draw hearts. They giggle. It’s sweet.

I still carry Toto everywhere. He’s become a lifeline.

Three Months In

Three months. I count them in my head like beads on a string. One… two… three. Mama’s not here. But I carry her in my heart every single second.

This morning I woke up early. The sun was pale through the curtains. I climbed out of bed and tiptoed to the window. The hall was still. Empty. No Mama. I pressed my forehead against the glass. I whispered:

“Mama… are you out there?”

No answer.

Later, they ask me to write in my journal. They say it’ll help me speak. So I write.

Dear Mama,

I still love you. I still miss you every day. I draw a lot. I make pancakes in my mind. I’m still here. Waiting for you. Don’t forget me. I’m not just Sofía with Down syndrome. I am Sofía who draws and listens and loves.

That night, I read it to the wall before sleep.

Six Months In

I’ve been here six long months. I know the routine by heart: wake up, breakfast, art therapy, group walk, lunch, nap, activities, dinner, bed. Every day the same. The caregivers are kind, mostly. They say, “You’re doing well, Sofía,” as they wipe your hands after meals. They call you “Sweetie,” “Love.”

But every day, in my chest, there’s the same ache. An ache for home, for Mama.

Then something changes. Today, on the art room door, I see a notice: “Family Visit — Saturday, September 20 — optional.” My breath catches. Family visit? Could it be?

I stare at that sign all day. My colorful heart tree is torn inside me. I think: Mama might come back.

Saturday arrives. I wake before dawn — before the sun. They bring me to the art room and cover the chairs with bright cloths. People whisper. My hands tremble.

The door opens, and… I don’t know why my heart stops. It’s her. It’s Mama. Her hair is messier than I remember. Her eyes still red, but softer this time. She looks at me like she’s never seen me before — and like she’s always seen me.

I stand without thinking and run to her. I hug her so hard I nearly squeeze the breath out of her. She holds me like she hasn’t let go of me in forever.

“Mama,” I cry. “I waited. I kept drawing hearts. I said I would wait.”

“I know, my sweet Sofi,” she says, her voice everywhere in me. “I’m here now. I’m not leaving anymore.”

I look into her eyes — those two moons that should never dim. And I believe it. For the first time in so long, I feel enough. I feel loved.

Epilogue

Back home, the world feels new. I show Mama my drawings. She pins them on our fridge. The heart‑trees. Smiley suns. A girl and her teddy bear. She tastes my pancakes, still the best in the world. She laughs when I add too much sugar.

At night, I fall asleep with Toto. Mama kisses my forehead. She pulls me close. And I know: being Sofía — fully, completely — is more than enough.

And now, when I say: “I’m not just that,” I mean it. I am Sofía: a drawer of lines, a maker of pancakes, a heart‑keeper, a listener. I am someone whose love and longing are big and brave and real.

Mama didn’t give up. I didn’t give up. Because love—real love—means staying.