My backpack slides to the floor. What I see, I can't believe. My mother is lying on the floor. She looks asleep. But I can tell that she isn't, by her eyes. She's dead.

I don't cry.  She wasn't a good mother. It's my father that I care about. I call him at work. Instead of hearing his cheery, "Hi, Amelia!" I get his boring, "Hello. This is Lucas Jackson, I'm sorry to miss your call, please do whatever the robotic lady tells you to and you're cool. TTYL,"and then the "At the Tone, Please record your message. When you are finished, please hang up or press 1 for more options. " I curse at the telephone, and then grab an apple and take a big bite. The sticky juice floods my mouth.

Most people call us a casual family. My dad is a architect, and my mom is a stay-home mom. Our house is normal sized, I wear normal clothes, I go to a public school, we eat spaghetti and tacos, the normal traits about us go on and on.  But I wasn't calm when I dialed 911. 

"911, Where's your emergency?"

"1348 Ciek Street"

"What's your Emergency?"

"I came home from school, My mother is dead, And my dad won't pick his phone up!" I yell, and then curse some more."

"How old are you?"

"13." I pout.

"Watch your language."

"I'm sorry. My mother swore all the time. "

"We'll be right over."

"Thanks."

Then, I kneel by mother. Her skin is cold. Her eyes are open.  They are staring forward in shock. I hear sirens in the distance. Before they are too close, I  reach into her pocket, and find what I was hoping for. Her Phone.