Yanire Quema was not there. She did not watch the officer's lips as they moved and she did not feel the cool Virginia air against her face. She could not see the flashing lights or her husband standing there in cuffs. The man shouted to her as he was tucked away neatly in the back of a cop car. Maybe he said to call his lawyer. Maybe he told her that he'd be back in a day or two. Maybe he had even apologised.

Yanire wouldn't be there to find out. As soon as the officers pulled away she walked back up the walkway towards the old fashioned Southern home. It was a gentle yellow with a generous wraparound porch and classic storm windows. She'd lived there with Martien van Bijvank for nearly six years now and still, she couldn't bother to feel anything as she walked through the doors. Yanire walked straight into the master bedroom where she'd cohabitated with her husband and she grabbed one of the more hefty suitcases from his closet. The room was empty, echoing years of emptiness that had already sunk deep into their marriage. Yanire couldn't force herself to feel anything towards Martien, and looking at their cold bedroom, she wasn't sure she ever had.

Outside of the suitcase itself, the woman would take nothing that belonged to the man.First and foremost, she gathered what little money she'd stored away of her own. She then stuffed two or three outfits, a toothbrush, and some other basic hygiene items into the case and snapped it shut quickly. Yanire grabbed the keys to one of their shared cars and drove it to the morgue which the officer's had said they'd taken the body to. When she got there it was nearly 10:30 and she was rather surprised that the receptionist was still in the office. She walked inside, the bell dinging softly as she did, prompting the elderly man to turn around.

When he saw the shape of her, his face looked a bit sad as he waved for her to come over.

"Are you the boy's mother?"

Yanire nodded, her throat thick with a sob. The old man looked at her with hazy grey eyes through circular frames. He'd been doing this a very long time, but it never really got any easier.

"It's a shame about the boy ma'am. I'm terribly sorry."

Yanire nodded, wiping the new tears away.

"What do you folks want to do with the body?"

"I'm sure my husband will want to decide on that."

The man seemed disappointed to hear her response. He eyed the brokenness in Yanire and asked if she would attend the burial or funeral. The mother shook her head.

"I just came to say goodbye."

The elderly fellow looked at the turtleneck about her and the heavy foundation she wore. He'd seen more cases like this than he liked to admit. It made him very grateful for his own lover.

Yanire watched his wrinkled and aged hands as they pulled the door open and eventually, Joeri's drawer. She couldn't stand the idea that her son would never get to know that wisdom or that experience.

"Right this way ma'am."

He left Yanire alone after opening the cold, metallic drawer. She stared down at her son and began to sob in a way that she had never sobbed before. She brushed his silky black hair from his face, ignoring the drying blood and the battered state of him. She looked at his rosy red cheeks and remembered the way he used to smile up at her whilst she taught him how to make dinner.

Joeri, her precious Joeri. Yanire stared down at the body of her only son and she knew that she would never lose anything so precious as him again. He was the light in her darkness and she was sure she would never know any sort of warmth again. She would never come back from losing her boy.

She bid goodnight to the kind morgue-owner and drove next to a car rental place directly from there. If she took their car, Martien would only report it stolen and figure out where she was that way. She picked the most common model they had available, a red Honda Civic, and rented it for three days with cash. Next she started driving as far the fuck away from Virginia as she was able. More specifically, she was headed for Maine.

She'd left her phone, debit card, and her set of keys on the dining room table. There was no note, no explanation whatsoever. Martien didn't deserve that.

She listened to the classical channel all the way from Virginia to New York, opting for silence when she found herself closer to where she was headed. She'd wanted to find the playlist she'd made with her son, but feared Martien would track the listeners through the rental's data system somehow. Having been on the road for more than six hours, she pulled over to a well-lit rest stop in the suburbs and took a short nap in the backseat. She was awoken after forty five minutes per a nightmare wherein Martien had found her and taken her back to their home in Virginia.

Shaken all over again, she started the car and took off again through the state of New York. As she passed through Massachusetts, Yanire had started open mouth sobbing again. She couldn't shake the image of Joeri's face from her mind. He had only been six years old. Six years old. Yanire was beside herself with grief. She was sure she looked wild and feral at every stoplight, but still, she couldn't help herself.

When she made it over Maine's state line, Yanire realised she didn't know exactly where she was going. So she pulled over both to get a bottle of water, and to borrow the gas station phone. It was nearly 1am in Maine and even the gas station employee looked sure that whoever she meant to call would be fast asleep. Yanire tried not to look at the employee suspiciously but she was sure the young man would sell her out to Martien for anything over two hundred dollars. She typed in the only phone number from America that she'd ever bothered to memorise and hoped beyond hope that they would pick up.

Emesta was in the middle of a twelve hour shift at the hospital when her cell phone started ringing. It was an outlandish hour of night and typically she never touched her phone on the job. However, she got a weird feeling when she stared down at the unknown caller ID and in a split second, opted to answer the call.

"Who is it?"

"Emesta?"

She didn't recognise the voice on the phone and started to doubt her decision.

"Who is this?"

"It's me, Yanire. Yanire Quema… we have the same father."

Emesta's eyes went a little wide. She knew who Yanire was, yes. Around four months back, they'd gotten into contact after Yanire learned that she had a sister in America. Their conversations had been rather distant and formal, neither sure how to approach the other. Still, hearing the strain in Yanire's voice worried her.

"Hey Yanire, it's me. What's going on?"

The woman breathed deeply through the line.

"I'm in Maine right now."

Emesta was in utter shock. She had never expected to actually meet Yanire but she wasn't opposed to it either. Though, she had the sense that something very serious was happening.

"Where in Maine? Do you need me to pick you up?"

"Err- no, I've got a car. Something bad happened and I need a place to hide out for a while."

Emesta nodded, eyes looking about the hospital to ensure nothing requiring her immediate attention was happening. The patients slept soundly and the sound of machines was low, solid.

"Okay, I live in a small house towards the coast, it'll probably be quite a drive from where you are. Do you mind? I'm also on a shift right now, I probably won't be home for another four hours."

"That's completely fine, I just need somewhere to go. I'm sorry about this, I know we don't know each other well, I don't have any other options."

Emesta could hear the way Yanire's voice broke over the phone and her chest ached. You didn't have to know someone well to feel for them. She told Yanire the address and mentioned that the gate to the backyard had no lock. She told her half sister that she was free to park in the backyard until Emesta could meet her there. Yanire thanked her several times and swore she'd explain everything when they met.

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When Emesta pulled up the alleyway to her home, she was a type of nervous she'd never been before. Maine wasn't a very eventful place. She'd lived a pretty simplistic life, that of a middle class trust fund baby born to a vacationing Filipino man and an American woman. She never met her father, but there wasn't much of a hole left in her life since her mother was the youngest of four children; she was surrounded by a great many uncles, and eventually cousins.

She'd always had what was needed, and was able to get some of the things she wanted too. She attended charter schools and was always in the top 10% of her classes. Emesta Quema was nothing if not an intellectual and it'd never hurt her to be attractive on top of that. Her mother didn't know much about Filipino culture initially but thought it important that Emesta be educated in the topic, being that it was a part of her. So Emesta was taught the language and cooking techniques of the Philippines, which was really as much as she could hope for.

However, her lack of experience with hardship or adversity had led her to get quite anxious whenever such a thing reared its head. Eventually she was diagnosed with a form of social anxiety and was still being medicated for it today. It had gotten much better over the years, but right now it was climbing back to levels she'd long forgotten.

When she got to the back fence, she pushed the gates open and saw the red Honda Civic parked exactly as promised, off to the side of the yard. After swallowing thickly, Emesta pulled up the drive and got out to close the gates behind her. When she got out of her car, she noticed Yanire getting out of her own and standing, rather awkwardly, just beside the door. After the gate was secure, Emesta walked over to her half sister, trying to be as natural as she could manage.

"Hi."

Emesta's voice was shaky, and sounded alien even to herself.

"Hey. Sorry again, about all of this."

Emesta took in the woman with analytical eyes. She wore baggy and modest clothing, standing awkwardly but with very tense shoulders.

"It's completely fine. Do you need help getting your things?"

Yanire shook her head quickly and turned to the backseat, pulling out a singular office-style suitcase and letting it crunch on the dewy grass between them.

"Right, well come on, it's chilly out."

Emesta led the woman inside through the backdoor, asking Yanire to be sure and lock it behind them. When they were both settled in the open kitchen, Emesta gathered two mugs from the cabinet and set them on the counter.

"Would you like to talk now? Or in the morning? It's quite late."

Emesta eyed Yanire curiously; she hadn't the slightest idea what'd happened.

"Do you have to get up early? What about your classes?"

Emesta shook her head.

"I don't do classes on Tuesday, and I only work three shifts a week."

"So I've got you to myself."

Yanire's joke prompted a smile from Emesta as the turmoil in her chest began to settle. She patted a bar stool at the island counter and moved to the opposite side of it. Yanire took the hint and seated herself there, leaving her suitcase neatly by the door.

"Tea or coffee?"

Yanire blinked twice.

"Uhm, whichever you'd prefer."

Emesta nodded and went with some mint and chamomile tea from her collection. It was among the more calming of teas out there and she got the feeling this wasn't going to be the easiest conversation.

"While the kettle boils, I'm going to change out of these scrubs."

Yanire nodded, saying she'd watch over the tea.

Emesta moved up the stairs with sore feet and allowed her shoulders to slump now that she was out of view. She was sure with whatever ordeal her half sister had gone through, the woman would need someone to be strong for her. As far as Emesta was concerned, that was a simple sacrifice to make.

There were only two doors at the top of the stairs, one to the left and the other to the right. Emesta dipped into the left one and left the door slightly ajar behind her. The woman had inherited a lot of her grandparents' furniture when they passed, primarily because her mother already had one of each of everything there was to have. She liked the reminiscence of the old oak wood and the memories she carried from her grandparents.

She opened the creaky dresser and pulled the scrubs off, folding them and plopping them into the very bottom drawer which was reserved for work-clothes-only. Then she slipped into some sweats and a t-shirt before hurrying back down the stairs.

When she'd returned to the kitchen, Yanire's back was to her. The woman's long and curling dark hair swayed around her lower back as she poured the tea from the kettle into the two mugs. Emesta found it as no surprise that her sister was attractive, being as she certainly was, but Yanire was a very different kind of attractive altogether. She was solid like an old tree and stranded in the woods, a sole survivor. Emesta could tell that her sister was strong, and that was a beauty beyond anything else.

"Tea's ready?"

Yanire had tried to conceal her flinch but failed, turning and giving a weak smile.

"Yeah, I didn't add sugar, not sure if you like it."

Emesta shook her head.

"There's cream in the fridge if you'd like though."

Yanire looked nervously towards the fridge and shook her head.

When the girl's were seated at the kitchen island, a silence coated them. Yanire was staring almost absently at Emesta and Yanire did the same. She noticed out of the corner of her eye that her half sister's sleeves were rolled up. On the woman's right arm there was a healing purple bruise. Emesta said nothing but her stomach quenched with a newfound nervousness at what she was about to hear.

"You have our father's eyes."

Emesta choked on her tea a little.

"Pardon?"

"Your eyes, they're hazel. Just like dads."

Emesta smiled a little.

"I never met him."

"Do you want to know about him?"

Emesta thought about it for a moment.

"No, I don't think it'd be fair to my mom."

Yanire nodded, quite understanding. If she were in the opposing situation, she wasn't sure she'd want to know about him either. Her eyes went a little misty.

"Where's your baby?"

Yanire's eyes darted up, pain evident in them.

"Sorry."

"No, no you haven't done anything wrong."

Yanire wiped her eyes and sucked in a deep breath, looking at Emesta, very much alive now.

"Joeri is dead."

Emesta cringed, her stomach tightening into a knot.

"What happened?"

"His bastard father was drunk, driving him home from his Dutch lessons. They turned into an intersection just near the house, but the bastard was too reckless. Another car struck them on Joeri's side, his neck snapped and his head slammed into the headboard because he was too small to trigger the weight sensor and the airbag never ejected. He was killed instantly. Then, the bastard- his muscles relaxed because of the liquor. He didn't even have a fucking scratch on him."

The hatred and grief in Yanire's dark brown eyes was inescapable. Emesta could tell she was currently angry about Joeri, but this hatred was far too potent and bitter to be a one-time wonder. The woman hadn't spoken much of her husband to Emesta, saying only that he was a professor from Virginia.

"Fuck. I'm sorry Yanire. That's horrible."

Angry tears were slipping down her cheeks like daggers.

"You know, I was never angry when he berated me."

Emesta cringed, but listened on closely.

"I was never angry when he moved the keys and made me feel crazy. I was never even angry when he started making me wear certain clothes and stay home…."

Emesta clung onto every word, completely unable to tear her eyes away from the loss and rage on this woman's face.

"But when he killed my son."

Her voice broke and her body shook with sobs. Emesta stood on impulse, moving over to the broken woman and gathering her into her arms. She was unsure how long they stood that way. Eventually she began to stroke her sister's head and whisper that everything would be okay. The woman held onto Emesta like a lifeline, and maybe, she was.

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