The morning is soft and cool, speaking of moments before the ready June heat. The sunlight filters through a window in the dining room, spills over onto the floor and the wooden table, worn with years of spilled nail polish and angry math assignments. It is here that a mug and a few papers sit.

The mug is scratched and faded, worn just as well as the table, if not more. There's a chip in the side, its outline softened by the stillness of the room. Cold, half-finished coffee sits in the bottom of the cup, forgotten and forlorn. Loose-leaf paper sits on top of bills. Scrawling handwriting; an impatient writer looping out hasty phrases. It, too, sits dejected as the coffee.

There, on the stairs, is the stillness broken. A women, mid fifties perhaps, stands at the top of the landing rubbing the sleep from her wakening eyes. Slowly she makes her way down the stairs, one slippered foot at a time, until she notices the coffee cup. Mildly she stares, bewildered with sleep, at the chip in the side. Her eyes travel to the scrap of paper, stained with bad handwriting.

She picks up the paper, brows furrowed in early-morning concentration. She reads it once. Twice. Another time still. It is a goodbye note. Her hands shake.

The mug sits before her disbelieving eyes, her mother eyes, her somber September eyes, her searching-for-answer eyes. The clock ticks across the room. The sunlight plays across the coffee cup's surface, illuminating the chip.