Ivy Owen's parents were dead. They died when she was only four. Tragic, yes, but Ivy was used to tragic.

Her mother had anger issues, which caused Ivy a lot of pain. Her father's problem was the bottle. He was never without one. But, Ivy had learned to adapt. She learned that: When speaking to her mother, she must never to anything that would make her angry. She also learned to: Stay away from her father at all costs.

Even though her parents caused her much pain, she still loved them. Ivy's heart was a kind and tender one. She felt pity on them. Even though she was young, she was gifted with wisdom beyond her years.

Ivy also tried to care for her parents. If her mother was having a horrible day, she would massage her mother's shoulders before things got out of hand. As for her father, well, if things weren't too bad with him, she would try to help him in any way she could. By putting him to bed or feeding him or whatever he wanted, really.

But one day, when Ivy came home from preschool to her dark, dingy home, her mother wasn't there.

" Momma? Are you there?" Ivy called out softly,

" Momma, I'm home!"

No answer. So began her frantic, two-hour search of the entire house and neighborhood. At the end of it all there was only Ivy and her worrying tears.

What Ivy didn't know was that her mother was lying in a dark alley, dead, her father had died that morning in a car crash.

So, Ivy sat. And waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, she had no choice but to go to sleep. For her navy blue eyes were drooping and her full pink lips yawning.

The next morning, Ivy woke up later than usual, she'd already missed the preschool bus. So, she sat. And waited, and waited, and waited.

It's been two years since that day, and as far as I know, she's still waiting.