The Idea Jar

Bell’s fingers traced the dusty edges of the old photo album. It lay open on the rug, a portal to a time when laughter seemed to echo more freely in their home. She peered at a photograph, her own tiny hand tucked into her dad’s as they built a magnificent sandcastle at the beach. Her mom, her face crinkled with a smile, was splashing water at them, her hair a little wild. Bell remembered that day. She remembered the salty spray on her skin, the gritty feel of sand between her toes, and the warm, solid feeling of her dad’s hand holding hers.

Another picture showed her perched on her dad’s shoulders, a bright red balloon bobbing above her head. Her mom was behind them, clapping, her eyes shining. Bell hugged her knees, a familiar ache settling in her chest. Where had those days gone? It felt like a lifetime ago. Now, her parents were like ships passing in the night, their schedules so full they barely had time to dock. Mom was always on her phone, tapping away at emails, her brow furrowed. Dad was often in his study, the door closed, the hum of his computer a constant background noise. Even when they were home, their eyes seemed to be elsewhere, lost in thoughts of work or bills or things Bell didn’t understand.

She’d tried, of course. She’d asked Mom if they could read a book, and Mom had said, “Later, sweetie, Mommy’s in the middle of something important.” She’d asked Dad if they could play catch, and Dad had sighed, “Not right now, Bell, Daddy has a deadline.” The words “later” and “not right now” had become a soundtrack to her days. It wasn’t that they didn’t love her, she told herself, trying to push away the prickly feeling of doubt. They just… didn’t have time. But the silence in the house felt louder than usual, and the absence of their easy affection left a hollow space inside her.