The Girl With No Name - By: Ava Newsome

There was a girl who grew up in an apartment. I think her name was Olivia. Or maybe Mia. Or Lily. I’m not sure what her name really was — or if it even mattered. Because what happened to her, or what didn’t happen, is what sticks.

She had a mother who tried her best—but sometimes her best just wasn’t good enough. There was food on the table, sure. A warm bed at night. Despite that, there was something hollow that no blanket or boxed macaroni could fill.

Her mom was seventeen when she had her. Just a kid raising a kid. Some nights they'd both cry, one quietly in the bedroom, the other pretending not to hear through the thin apartment walls. Her mother would hold her tighter after those nights, and for a moment it almost felt like enough.

They lived in a neighborhood where the paint peeled from stairwell railings and the neighbors’ arguments seeped through the floorboards. Mornings were cereal, school, trying not to look too closely at other kids’ new sneakers or their fathers waiting at the gate. Afternoons were lonely cartoons, dinner heated in a microwave, and long stretches of silence.

Her mother worked double shifts—serving, sometimes cleaning houses on weekends—and came home smelling like bleach and coffee. She smiled when she could, but mostly she was tired.

They talked little about dreams. Dreaming felt like a luxury for people who had time.

And the girl—Olivia or Mia or Lily—She folded herself into silence like a secret no one was supposed to find. She wished for less — less noise, less attention, less anything — until she became almost invisible.

Despite that, at night, she stared at the ceiling and tried to name what was missing.

She could never quite find the word.

Sometimes, when her mom braided her hair in the mornings—quick, tight, with fingers that moved like they were late for something—she'd hum under her breath. Old songs, maybe from the radio, or ones she made up. Olivia (or Mia or Lily) would sit perfectly still, her back straight, eyes on the mirror, pretending she belonged to different house. One with quiet mornings and soft voices. One where nobody had to rush.

She didn't know why she felt that way. Nothing was wrong, exactly. Her clothes were clean. She had a backpack with her name stitched inside. Her mom kissed her goodbye, every day, without fail. But some kids at school had snacks with little notes tucked in, written in curly handwriting with hearts over the i’s. Some kids had moms who came to the classroom for reading hour. Hers never could. Not because she didn’t care—but because caring didn’t stop bills from coming or bus routes from running late.

She didn’t ask for much. Not toys, not attention. She learned early that asking made her mom’s eyes go glassy, like a storm coming in from far away.

So she made up her own worlds.

In her head, the apartment had secret doors. The couch was a ship. The creaky closet was a portal to a better place. A place where the air didn’t smell like someone else’s cooking and the ceiling didn’t leak. A place where her mom smiled with her whole face.

But even in her games, the missing thing followed her. It was like a shadow—shapeless, soft, always there when things got quiet.

She didn’t have a name for it. Not yet.

She only remembered him in pieces. A smell—like beer and cold air. A voice that could go from soft to sharp like a snapped rubber band. A door slamming. Her mother’s face going still.

Sometimes, in the early mornings when the street was still quiet, and the radiator made strange ticking sounds, she’d ask, “Where’s my dad?” Her mom would pause, eyes flickering just for a second, then say something like, “Far away,” or, “He wasn’t good at being a dad.”

That was the end. For a while.

But kids at school talked about their dads—what they did for work, how they played catch, how they got grounded. She listened like someone peeking into a world she wasn’t supposed to see.

Once, she asked again. This time, her mother stopped folding laundry and looked her in the eye.

“He hurt us,” she said softly. “He wasn’t safe.”

She didn’t know what “hurt” really meant, not yet. But she knew what unsafe felt like. She remembered hiding under the kitchen table, her mother’s voice shaking, something heavy hitting the wall. She remembered being pulled out of bed one night and rushed to someone else's apartment, the neighbor with the cat and too many jackets on the couch.

After that, he was just gone. Like a bad dream you wake up from, but never quite forget.

Her mom never said his name. She didn’t either. It was like they’d made a silent agreement: he was a shadow that would stay behind the door, never fully opened.

Still, in her quiet moments, she wondered. Was he out there? Did he think of her? Was she part of the reason he hurt things?

She didn’t ask that out loud. She just pressed her stuffed bear close to her chest and tried to believe her mom when she said, “We’re better now. We’re safe.”

But that feeling—that something was missing—it wasn’t just about snacks or new shoes. It was a hole shaped like a person she didn’t want to remember, but couldn’t quite forget.

Her mom was beautiful in a way that made strangers pause—high cheekbones, tired eyes, chipped nail polish. She had a laugh that used to fill a whole room, though the girl hadn’t heard it much lately.

She worked a lot; always standing, always moving, always sore. Serving in the mornings, cleaning in the evenings. Her phone was always dying. She never remembered school picture days or signed permission slips on time. But she never forgot to tell her daughter she loved her—usually when she was halfway out the door, keys in hand, voice rushed and hair still wet from the shower.

She had her good days. When the tips were decent and no one yelled at her and the bus didn’t break down, she’d come home with a plastic bag full of small surprises—cheap nail polish in glittery pinks, off-brand cereal with cartoon mascots, clearance rack headbands.

On those nights, she’d sit on the couch with her feet up and let her daughter paint her nails, laughing when the polish went crooked.

But there were other days too.

The quiet ones. When she barely spoke, when her eyes went glassy and far off. When she’d stand in the kitchen, staring into the fridge like she’d forgotten what she was looking for.

Sometimes she’d light a cigarette out the window, even though she promised she quit. Sometimes she cried in the shower.

The girl didn’t know what to do on those days. She just cleaned up quietly. Got herself ready for bed. Pretended, she didn’t notice.

She never doubted her mom loved her. Not that. Her love was constant—but scattered. Like light through a broken window. Warm in some places. Missing in others.

Still, the girl clung to those warm patches. Memorized them. Collected them like puzzle pieces, hoping one day they’d make a whole picture.

Sometimes, her mom lost her temper.

It didn’t happen every day, but when it did, it hit like a slammed door—loud, sudden, and hard to forget. It could be anything that set her off: a question asked too many times, socks left on the floor, a bad day she couldn’t hide anymore.

“I can’t do everything, you know!”

“Why can’t you just be good for once?”

“You think this is easy? You think I wanted this?”

The words hung in the air, sharp and sour.

The girl would freeze,

too afraid to speak, like her silence might undo them.

While her mother yelled, the girl pressed her hands to her ears and pictured the closet door swinging open—revealing a quiet forest, a sky with two suns, anything but this.

Then came the silence. Her mother turning away, scrubbing the same plate over and over, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.

Sometimes she said sorry, softly, like it hurt her to admit it. Sometimes she said nothing at all.

The girl would nod anyway. Pretend it didn’t matter. Pretend the words didn’t sink into her skin and stay there.

She told herself her mom didn’t mean it. That it was the stress talking. That love could still hurt and be real.

But some nights, lying in bed, she repeated the words in her head and wondered if maybe they were true.

This girl Olivia or Mia or Sophia

She didn’t know it yet, but one day she’d find a word for it.

Until then, then, she built castles from crayons and daydream dust.

with dragons who sneezed glitter and moonbeams for guards.

Her stuffed bear was captain, brave and bossy,

leading adventures through shadows and light,

where the missing was just a game to be won—

and the sun always smiled, no matter what.

She tiptoed past the ticking clock’s grumpy face,

skipping puddles of yesterday’s worries.

In this world, socks never got lost—

they danced with the stars in a midnight parade.

And when the night hummed its soft lullaby,

she tucked her secrets inside a jar of fireflies.

Please give a detailed explanation about the meaning and main idea of this poem.

This piece is based on how I grew up and my relationship with my mother. It explores how love can be real, but not always enough— and how I carried the feeling that something was always missing.

Please explain your writing and thought process regarding this poem.

I started from memory and feeling. I didn’t want to write a dramatic story— just show the small, quiet pain of everyday life. Near the end, I let imagination take over. Daydreaming has always been how I survive.

Why did you choose to write this poem?

Because this is the story I needed when I was younger.

Because there are kids growing up right now with that same hollow feeling, wondering if they’re the only ones. Because I still don’t have the words for everything I felt — but I’m trying.

Do you have any tips or anything to share with the youth writers who may be reading this?

Don’t write pretty. Write honestly.

If they tell you it’s “too much,” write more.

Break grammar rules. Break expectations. Break silence.

The em dash is mine. I claimed it before bots learned punctuation— and I’m not giving it up.

Your pain isn’t too loud. Your truth isn’t too messy.

Stop editing yourself to be palatable. You’re not here to be liked.

Write like you’re kicking the door down. Because you are.

If they want watered-down— let them sip someone else’s poem.