Lia hops her skipping rope in the hallway while her mom calls from the kitchen, 'Don't forget your water bottle and listen to your teacher today!' Lia gives a quick nod without looking up, her rope clicking against the floor, and bolts out the front door before the words even settle.
At school, the teacher explains the big art project for the week while Lia trades stickers with her desk-mate and only catches the word 'poster,' so she spends the morning hunting for scissors that aren't where she expects, then spills a jar of glitter everywhere when she finally finds them.
That afternoon, Lia's phone buzzes with a text from her mom: 'Did you pack the permission slip for tomorrow?' Lia squints at the screen, crumples the message, and shoves it in her pocket without typing a reply.
The next morning at the school bus stop, Lia pats her bag and her stomach drops — the permission slip is missing. The bus doors hiss shut and roll away, leaving Lia standing alone on the curb while exhaust puffs around her shoes, and she hears her mom's voice from the night before: 'Check your bag, Lia. I put it in the front pocket.'
That evening, Lia sits at the kitchen table and decides she will slow down and really hear what her mom says next time, her fingers tracing the rim of her water glass as the house settles into quiet.
When her mom calls from the stove, 'Lia, can you read me the recipe card? I need two eggs,' Lia walks over and reads the ingredients out loud instead of drifting toward her homework, the paper warm under her thumbs.
Her mom smiles and hands her a whisk, saying, 'You remembered the vanilla — good listening,' and Lia cracks the eggs into the bowl, the yolk sliding in with a soft splat.
Later, her mom reads aloud from a book at the table, and Lia leans in close, tracing the words with her finger as her mom's voice fills the kitchen.