Empty Seats, Heavy Hearts: My Winter in Chicago

“If you’re late again, don’t bother coming home tonight!”

My mom’s words echoed through my head as the Number 52 bus lurched through another intersection. I pressed my forehead to the frosted window, watching the city blur into streaks of gray and white. The plastic bag in my lap crinkled, drawing a curious glance from the old woman across the aisle. Inside it was a tiny, lopsided cake—one of those marked-down ones from the SaveMore on 43rd, the kind with frosting that looked cheerful, but tasted like cardboard. It was for my brother, Dylan. He was turning ten today, and I’d promised him we’d celebrate, even if Mom forgot again.

I checked my phone: three missed calls from her, one angry text. I swallowed hard, guilt and frustration wrestling in my chest. I was seventeen, but I’d been raising Dylan since he was five. Mom worked double shifts at the hospital, then came home and lost herself in bottles or Netflix, depending on the week. Dad left when I was twelve. I learned early how to keep our little world spinning, even if the grown-ups around me couldn’t.

The bus jolted to a stop in front of the old library. A man in a threadbare Cubs jacket stumbled on, muttering to himself. He sat behind me, and I could smell the stale cigarettes on his breath. Everyone pretended not to notice, just like always.

My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten since lunch, but the $12 in my pocket had to last until Friday. I thought about the cake, about the way Dylan’s eyes would light up when he saw it, and it gave me enough strength to ignore the ache.

The city outside was a study in contrasts. Christmas lights flickered in apartment windows, winking at the darkness. A couple huddled together at a bus stop, shivering, probably fighting, but still together. I wondered if they’d make it. I wondered if I would.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed. I hesitated, then answered.

“Emily! Where are you?” Mom’s voice was sharp, brittle.

“I’m on my way home. I got Dylan a cake.”

“A cake? With what money? I told you we don’t have—”

“I used my own. Don’t worry about it.”

A pause. I could hear her breathing, could almost smell the vodka on her breath through the line.

“Just… don’t be late.”

She hung up.

I tucked my phone away, blinking back tears. Sometimes I missed her so much it hurt, even when she was right there in the apartment. I missed the mom who used to braid my hair, who laughed at my jokes, who told me everything would be okay. I wished I could believe her.

The bus was nearly empty when I finally got off, the cold biting through my coat. Our building was one of those old walk-ups, paint peeling from the railings, the stairs echoing with every step. I took a deep breath before unlocking the door.

Inside, Dylan was sprawled on the floor, coloring a crumpled worksheet. He looked up and grinned. “Did you get it?”

I nodded, mustering my best big-sister smile. “Happy birthday, buddy.”

He scrambled up, hugging me tight. His arms were skinny, but his hope was strong enough for both of us.

“Where’s Mom?”

“In her room. She said she’s tired.”

Of course she was. I set the cake on the counter and lit the two blue candles I’d found in the junk drawer. The kitchen was cold, the fridge humming like a distant lullaby. Dylan bounced in place, excitement radiating off him.

We sang, just the two of us. Our voices echoed in the emptiness, but for a moment, it felt like the whole world was listening. Dylan squeezed his eyes shut, made a wish, and blew out the candles. The smoke curled in the air, and I carved uneven slices, handing him the biggest piece.

“Is Mom coming?” he asked, hope flickering in his eyes.

“I’ll get her.”

I knocked gently on her door. “Mom? It’s time for cake.”

No answer. I hesitated, then opened the door. She was curled up under the covers, eyes red-rimmed, empty vodka bottle on the nightstand. My heart clenched.

“Come on, Mom. Dylan’s waiting.”

She turned away. “I can’t, Em. Not tonight.”

“Please. Just five minutes. For him.”

She pulled the blanket tighter. “Tell him I’m sorry.”

I stood there for a long moment, anger prickling at my skin. I wanted to scream, to shake her, to make her see. But I just closed the door and went back to Dylan.

He looked up, searching my face for answers.

“She’s not feeling well, but she loves you,” I lied. “We’ll save her a piece.”

Dylan nodded, accepting it. He always did.

We ate cake and watched cartoons until he fell asleep on the couch, crumbs in his hair. I tucked a blanket around him and sat there in the flickering TV light, exhaustion pressing down on me.

The apartment was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the distant siren wailing through the darkness. I thought about the emptiness in our home, how it felt like a void some days, but other times—like tonight—it was filled with the stubborn, persistent love I had for Dylan. It was never enough to fix everything, but it was all I had.

I wondered if things would ever change. If Mom would get better. If I’d ever get to be just a kid again, instead of the glue holding everything together. I thought about leaving, about college, about a life beyond these walls—and then I thought about Dylan, about the way he needed me, about how much I needed him too.

Sometimes, the world feels empty, but maybe it’s just waiting for us to fill it with meaning. Or maybe we’re meant to find meaning in the emptiness itself.

Does anyone else ever feel like this? Like you’re carrying the world on your shoulders, hoping someone will notice before you break?