The Afternoon They Took My Girls

The first time they knocked on my door was on a Tuesday afternoon.
When I opened it, the oldest stood there — thin, serious, and polite — with those big dark eyes that always seemed to apologize for existing.

“Ma’am… do you have a little sugar?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, sweetheart. Come in, I’ll give you some,” I said.

That was how it all started.

First it was sugar. Then salt. Then a bit of rice.
Their mother was never around — she worked at a factory across town, left before sunrise, and came home long after dark. The five girls were alone all day.

One Saturday, the one in the middle came to my door.
Her hair was tangled into a wild nest.

“Ma’am, can you comb it?” she asked shyly.

It broke my heart. She was seven, and she didn’t even know how to braid.

“Come here, my love. Sit down,” I told her.

I untangled that hair strand by strand, slow and patient, and made two neat braids.
When I finished, she looked at herself in the mirror in my living room — and smiled, as if I’d just given her the world.

After that, they all came.

My little retirement apartment filled with life again — laughter, footsteps, small fights over fabric dolls I sewed myself. I taught them how to stitch, to read, to sweep properly, to share. The oldest was especially skilled — gentle hands, focused eyes.

“See? That’s how you push the needle,” I told her. “Slowly, so the thread doesn’t twist.”

“Like this, ma’am?”

“Perfect, sweetheart. You’re going to sew better than I ever did.”

It became our routine.
Every day after school, they’d knock on my door. I’d give them cookies when I had some, or bread with butter when I didn’t. I combed their hair, checked their homework, patched their uniforms.

Their mother knew, I think. Once, I met her in the hallway.

“Thank you for taking care of them,” she said, her voice tired, eyes hollow. “I can’t… I have to work.”

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “They keep me company.”

And it was true.
Since my husband passed, my home had been a silent tomb. Those girls filled it again with the sound of living — laughter, footsteps, bickering, the hum of life that I thought I’d lost.

But then, one Thursday afternoon, the white van came.

I was combing the youngest’s hair when I heard the knocking — sharp, official, heartless.
When I opened, two women stood there, folders in hand, credentials hanging from their necks.

“Good afternoon,” one said. “Social Services. We’ve come for the children from Apartment 304.”

My blood went cold.

“The little girls? What’s happened?”

“They’re in a state of neglect,” she said flatly. “The mother can’t care for them. They’re coming with us.”

“But they’re not neglected,” I protested. “They’re fine — I take care of them, they eat, they—”

“Please, ma’am,” she interrupted. “Don’t interfere.”

All five of them were lined up in the doorway.
Silent. Eyes wide with fear.
The oldest looked at me — those same dark eyes, full of questions I couldn’t answer.

“Ma’am…” she started, but one of the women grabbed her by the arm.

“Come on. Quickly.”

They marched them out one by one.
The little one was crying.
The middle one — my little girl with the braids — waved at me through the van window.

I stood there, comb still in hand, frozen in the hallway, as the engine started. The sound of that door closing still echoes in my ears.

That night I didn’t sleep.
The silence in my apartment returned, heavier than before. The walls seemed to breathe grief. The toys they’d left behind, the dolls, the notebooks — all still there, but lifeless.

My home was quiet again.
Too quiet.

Days passed. Then weeks. Then months.
No one came to my door asking for sugar anymore.
No laughter, no racing feet, no little hands tugging at my skirt.

I never heard from them again.

Sometimes, when I’m sitting alone, I can still hear them — their giggles down the hallway, the thud of their shoes running across the floor. I close my eyes and see them crowding around the kitchen table, crumbs everywhere, arguing about who gets the last cookie.

And I wonder — where are they now?
Did someone braid their hair?
Did someone remember to sew their clothes when they tore?
Do they have someone who tells them stories at night?

Their mother never came back either. Apartment 304 is empty now — locked, dark, forgotten.

And here I am.
An old woman with her pension, her memories, and a comb that hasn’t touched a child’s hair in years.

Sometimes I leave the window open, just to hear the noise of children playing on the street. Sometimes I sit by the door, pretending to read, just in case someone knocks again.

Because every time I hear a small hand knock on a door, anywhere in this building, a tiny part of me still hopes — absurdly — that it’s them.

The girls. My girls.

Maybe one day, one of them will remember the lady who braided her hair and gave her cookies. Maybe one day, she’ll come back, all grown up, just to say: “Ma’am, do you still have some sugar?”

And I’ll smile.
And I’ll say, “Yes, sweetheart. Come in. I’ll give you some.”