Simply Storytime Studio
A Quiet Escape
Every morning, Lily woke to the soft cooing of her daughter, Emma, from the crib beside her bed. It was always the same—the sun barely peeking through the curtains, the smell of stale air mixed with the faint scent of lavender from the baby lotion she used on Emma. The little girl’s small, chubby hands gripped the crib’s bars as she giggled softly, her face lighting up the way only a child could.
Lily’s heart swelled at the sight of her, but there was always that dark weight settling on her chest—the same weight she had carried for so long—that felt like part of her. She pushed it down, focused on Emma’s bright eyes, and prayed for the day to be just like every other—quiet, uneventful, full of small joys.
But the moment was always fleeting.
She could hear him—Jake—stirring from the other room. His footsteps were heavy and deliberate as if he had nothing left to prove but his dominance. Lily already felt the tightening in her throat. She forced a smile and kissed Emma’s cheek, brushing away the tears she didn’t even know were there.
“Mommy will be right back,” she whispered.
She rose quickly, stepping into the kitchen with as much confidence as she could muster, praying she could make breakfast before he came in.
Jake appeared in the doorway, his face still shadowed from sleep, his eyes hard and bloodshot. “You’re up early,” he said, his voice too sharp, too accusing. His gaze flicked to the counter where Lily had set out some bread for toast.
“I—I was just making breakfast for Emma,” Lily replied, her voice trembling, but she tried to hold it steady.
Jake snorted, rubbing his neck. “Do you honestly believe I can’t hear you tiptoeing around, acting like everything’s fine?” He entered the kitchen, his presence commanding. The atmosphere grew heavy as he approached, prompting Lily to instinctively retreat, her heart pounding.
“I’m just trying to create a nice morning,” she whispered, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter, the smooth surface anchoring her.
Jake scoffed, stepping into her space and towering over her. “Nice? Who do you think you’re fooling, Lily? You and your little girl… you think you can live in your little world and escape what’s real?”
Lily flinched, but Emma’s laughter echoed from the other room, reminding her of what she had to protect. She could feel the heat of his breath on her neck as he leaned in, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
“You know what happens when you don’t listen, don’t you?” His hand reached for her wrist, and she jerked it back quickly, heart hammering. But his eyes followed, cold and unyielding.
“I’m not going to let you hurt me today,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure she believed the words.
Jake paused, a flicker of something—was it surprise? —crossing his face. He let out a dry laugh. “You think you have a choice?”
Lily’s heart twisted in pain, but Emma’s giggling filled the air again, more distant now but still a lifeline.
For a moment, time seemed to freeze. Lily could hear her pulse in her ears, feel the air between them, thick with years of unspoken resentment. She had felt this before, a thousand times: the simmering anger, the thinly veiled threats, the weight of fear crushing her chest. But today… today was different. Emma’s innocent joy was louder than his cruel words. The thought of her daughter growing up in this—of Emma one day knowing this was her reality—made something shift inside Lily.
In the silence that followed, she took a deep breath, and a quiet resolve settled over her. For the first time in a long while, Lily wasn’t thinking of surviving. She was thinking of escaping.
“Maybe I don’t,” she whispered back, her voice steady now, filled with a quiet strength.
Jake stared at her, his brow furrowing. He took a step back, confused, but it was too late. Lily’s mind was already racing, every moment leading her to this one.
She turned toward the doorway, toward the sounds of her daughter. She moved swiftly, her legs trembling but steady.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Jake’s voice followed her, cold and venomous.
But this time, Lily didn’t stop. She entered the living room, scooping Emma into her arms, the baby’s warm body grounding her in the only truth that mattered anymore.
“I am,” Lily whispered, her voice firm with something she had never felt before—freedom.
She grabbed the diaper bag from the couch, the one she had packed the night before, just in case. Just in case she could make it out.
But before she could reach the door, a thought stopped her cold. A vision of Emma, small and vulnerable, surrounded by the very real danger of the unknown world outside, gripped her heart.
Was she ready? Was this truly the moment?
Jake’s voice continued to ring in the background, but something had shifted in Lily. She wasn’t leaving yet, not until she had a plan until she knew Emma would be safe until she knew she could build a life that wasn’t ruled by fear.
Turning back to Jake, a calmness settled over her. “Not today,” she said, her voice strong. “But one day soon. One day, I will be free. And you won’t stop me.”
Jake’s expression faltered as he studied her, the cruel smirk faltering for the first time in years. But Lily didn’t wait for him to respond. She turned, wrapping Emma tighter in her arms, and walked to the window. She pulled the curtain back slightly, peering out at the world beyond.
The road ahead was long. The escape wasn’t going to happen today. But it would happen. One step at a time.
And for the first time in ages, Lily felt the weight on her chest lighten if only just a little.
She could wait. She could plan. The world was still out there, and her future was waiting.
The Last Month of Lavender
Lena was only twelve when the world stopped spinning right.
It began on a humid August afternoon, the kind that pressed down on everything like a heavy, wet quilt. Her grandmother, whom everyone in the family called Nana Jo, had been making lavender lemonade in the kitchen while humming an old folk song. That was the last moment of normalcy Lena could remember. A crash. A cry. The glass pitcher shattered on the floor.
They said it was a stroke. Swift and sudden. Nana Jo’s face slackened, her voice gone, her limbs no longer obeying her brain. There was a blur of ambulances and hospital smells, words Lena didn’t understand but knew were serious—unresponsive, limited mobility, palliative care. And then, hospice.
But instead of a facility, they brought Nana Jo home. They cleared out the sunny front room with the bay window and filled it with quiet machines and the gentle rustle of nurses. The house smelled like lavender and antiseptic, like hope trying to hang on.
Lena visited every day after school—though she never left her side. She brought her notebook and their favorite lavender tea (even if Nana Jo couldn’t drink it) and whispered the same old stories, hoping they might find their way through.
For the first week, she believed her grandmother might still get better. She talked about school, about books, about the garden that waited for Nana Jo’s hands. But her grandmother’s eyes, when open, seemed to drift toward some distant place. A month passed, slow and quiet as a fading song.
One Sunday, Lena gathered a bundle of lavender from the garden, dried it, and tied it with twine. She placed it on the windowsill and whispered stories like they used to—tale of magical cures, enchanted blooms, and girls who never had to say goodbye.
That night, Nana Jo passed in her sleep, the scent of lavender close by and Lena’s voice still warm in the room.
The house felt quieter after that. Her chair stayed empty, and the garden grew wild. However, Lena kept a sprig of lavender tucked in her backpack, and when she needed courage, she whispered one of their stories into the wind.
Because even though her grandmother was gone, the stories—like the scent of lavender—lingered.
The Bench with the Missing Paint
Told by me, Kelsey. I think I was seven.
They found me under the slide—the red one that squeaks when the wind hits it just right. I was trying to be invisible. It’s not the superhero kind, just the kind where if you stay really still and quiet, maybe the world forgets to be mean for a while.
The lady who found me smelled like clean laundry. Her shoes crunched in the gravel. She didn’t ask me what I was doing. Just sat down on the old bench with the peeling paint. That’s where Mama used to sit, back when she still liked me.
“You cold, sweetie?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. Talking costs too much when you’re scared.
But she didn’t seem to mind. She just waited. Most grown-ups don’t do that. They either yell, or walk off, or both. But she sat there like she had all the time in the world for a kid like me.
My hands were stuffed up in my sleeves—I lost my jacket three sleeps ago. It got snagged on the fence behind the gas station. I tried to get it back, but that fence bites. It already got me once.
“I brought peanut butter crackers,” she said. Still not looking straight at me. Like she could tell I was pretending not to be there.
My stomach growled. I hated it for betraying me.
She set the little pack of crackers on the bench beside her. “You can have ’em if you want. I don’t like the kind with cheese.”
That made me smile a little, but only inside.
When she looked up at the sky, I crawled over real slow—bug slow—and snatched them. They were warm from her pocket, but I didn’t care. I ate them fast, just in case she changed her mind. She didn’t.
When I finished licking the crumbs off my fingers, she said, “My name’s Miss Angie. I run the daycare just down the street.”
I didn’t tell her my name. But I kind of wanted to.
She didn’t ask. She just said, “You can come with me if you want. We’ve got juice boxes, coloring books. A bathroom that flushes right.”
I didn’t really believe in nice places anymore. But her voice felt safe—kind of like how Mama used to sound in dreams I don’t have much these days.
So I followed her.
She didn’t try to hold my hand, which was good. She just walked slow, like she knew I still needed to pretend for a little while.
The daycare had a rainbow painted on the door. Inside, it smelled like glue and graham crackers. A boy with glasses waved at me. I didn’t wave back, but I felt my mouth almost try.
Later, after some juice and a nap under a soft blanket that didn’t smell like trash, Miss Angie asked again, real gentle, “Can you tell me your name now?”
I stared down at my shoes—the ones with my toes poking out.
“It’s Kelsey,” I whispered.
She smiled like I’d just handed her a treasure.
And right then, I didn’t feel invisible anymore.
That was the day I got found. Not just picked up. Found.
I’m the Big Sister
By me, Lila (I’m four and a half)
My name’s Lila. I’m four and a half. I don’t go to school like the kids on the TV, but I’m still real smart. I can count to twenty (sometimes I skip seventeen, but that’s okay). I know how to change a diaper and make toast if we’ve got bread. I know how to be quiet when Mommy’s sleeping on the couch, and Daddy’s gone to the store, but not the one with apples.
My baby brother’s name is Tuggie. That’s not his real name, but he always tugs on my shirt when he’s hungry or scared or needs me. So I call him Tuggie. He’s one and a little bit, and he smells like milk and old Cheerios. He cries when it gets dark and there’s no lights, ‘cause the house is sleepy again, and the clicky box on the wall says nothing.
Sometimes the lights work, and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes the toilet works, and sometimes it smells like outside. I don’t like the dark house. It makes the corners look like monsters.
Mommy says she’s “just resting” and that “Mommy’s medicine makes her tired.” Daddy says “don’t open the door for no one” and “keep quiet, baby girl.” So, I do. I do all the quiet.
I give Tuggie water in his sippy cup, but we don’t have juice anymore. I pat his back like this—pat, pat, pat—when he cries and tell him, “It’s okay, I’m here.” Sometimes, I sing the song from the cartoon with the rainbow puppy. He likes that. He laughs and claps, and his hands are sticky.
I don’t know what day it is. The sun comes, and then it hides. That’s how I know. When the sun hides, I put Tuggie in Mommy’s bed and curl up beside him. He’s warm. Mommy’s not always in the bed. Sometimes, she’s on the floor or outside on the steps, talking to her cigarette.
One time, a lady came and knocked real hard and yelled, “Anyone in there?” I hid with Tuggie in the bathtub under our blankie, like Daddy said. The lady went away. Her shoes were loud. I think she was a mean lady or maybe a helper. I don’t know. Grown-ups are hard.
We got some crackers. I hid ‘em under the couch so they don’t get gone when Daddy’s friends come over. They laugh too loud and smell like sharp drinks. I don’t like it when they come. I keep Tuggie in the closet with me then, with my flashlight that’s tired but still glows a little.
Sometimes, I wish I was the baby, and Tuggie was the big one. But then I remember—he needs me. I’m the big sister. I’m four and a half. I can count to twenty. I can keep us safe. I can wait till Mommy’s better. I can wait till Daddy brings food. I can wait. I can wait.
I’m really good at waiting.
Strawberry the Brave
Fourteen-year-old Lila Avery didn’t talk much—not because she couldn’t, but because the world was too loud. Too bright. Too many things happening all at once. But she had Strawberry.
Strawberry had velvety red fur and a pink bow that Lila had sewn on herself. She was a cat—sort of. A stuffed one. But Lila didn’t like to call her a toy. Strawberry was real, in the ways that mattered.
Every morning, Lila tucked Strawberry into her backpack with her head poking out, just enough to see the world. “Big day today,” Lila would whisper. “Math quiz. You’re better at fractions than me.” She knew Strawberry couldn’t answer, but she always imagined the cat’s silent purr of reassurance.
At school, most kids gave Strawberry odd looks. A few snickered. One girl, Jade, once whispered loudly, “Is she still carrying that dumb plushie?” Lila had flinched but kept walking. Strawberry stayed still, brave.
During lunch, Lila sat under the oak tree near the edge of the field. It was their favorite spot—the place where words didn’t press down on her like heavy clouds. She pulled Strawberry from her bag and placed her carefully on the grass.
“Guess what,” Lila said, voice low but bright, “I got nine out of ten on the quiz. You told me I’d do fine.” She smiled and gently touched Strawberry’s pink nose.
That’s when she heard footsteps.
Jade.
“Why do you act like that thing’s real?” the girl asked, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
Lila looked at Strawberry. Then at Jade. Her heart thudded like a drumline, but Strawberry sat proud, unbothered.
“She is real,” Lila said quietly, for the first time out loud.
Jade scoffed. “That’s weird.”
Lila blinked. “Maybe. But she’s kind. And she listens. You don’t have to believe in her.”
She turned away then, the way you close a book you’ve read a hundred times and still love. Jade stood there for a second longer, then walked off without another word.
Lila stayed under the oak tree, her fingers resting on Strawberry’s bow.
“Thanks for being brave,” she whispered.
Later that night, after brushing her teeth and lining up her pencils in perfect rows, Lila climbed into bed and tucked Strawberry under the blanket beside her. The day had been long, and her thoughts were still spinning, but not in the scary way. In the maybe-something’s-changing way.
“I think I did okay,” she said softly, not quite a question, not quite a statement.
Strawberry’s stitched eyes seemed to shine just a little in the moonlight.
Lila reached for her journal and wrote five small words on the very last page:
I was brave today, too.
Then she closed the book, turned out the light, and slept with the peaceful weight of something true beside her.
“When the Light Hits Right”
They were repainting the living room, and Seth didn’t see the point.
His mom had picked a color called “Harvest Smoke,” which sounded like a candle and looked like damp clay. It wasn’t even that different from the old color, just less yellow, which apparently mattered now. Todd, the stepdad, was real excited about it. Said it would “open up the space,” like that meant something to anyone who wasn’t obsessed with HGTV.
Seth held the plastic tarp as Todd spread it across the floor like he was preparing for surgery.
“You wanna help tape the trim?” Todd asked, already crouched down, tearing strips of blue painter’s tape with the kind of enthusiasm people usually reserved for scratch-off tickets.
“No, I’m good.”
Todd nodded like that was fine, but he kept looking at Seth every couple of minutes, like he was waiting for a better answer.
Seth sat on the couch and scrolled aimlessly through his phone. His mom was out running errands, which meant Todd was trying extra hard to be, like, paternal or whatever. It made Seth feel itchy in his own skin.
It had been ten years since his real dad, Mark, got sent away. Seth was seven when it happened, and even though he didn’t remember all the details, he remembered enough. The blue lights through the kitchen blinds. The sound of his mom’s voice breaking in half. How the neighbor came over and gave him a Pop-Tart like that could fix anything.
Mark wasn’t dead, just gone. Prison. Then out. Then somewhere in Nevada, according to the last thing Seth heard from an aunt he barely talked to. There were no birthday cards, no phone calls. Just a few grainy memories that didn’t line up anymore.
Todd had been around since Seth was nine. Always polite. Always trying. Always staying just on the side of the line where Seth couldn’t technically hate him, even if he wanted to.
Now Todd was painting his childhood living room like that made it his, too.
“You know,” Todd said, standing up and stretching, “we could hang some of your art in here. That sketch of the trees by the lake? That one’s good. Feels peaceful.”
Seth didn’t look up. “I drew that when I was twelve.”
“Still. It holds up.”
Seth put his phone face-down on the cushion. “Why do you keep trying?”
Todd blinked. “Trying what?”
“This.” Seth gestured toward the wall, the tape, the tarp, all of it. “This… dad stuff.”
Todd exhaled slowly, like he’d been waiting for the moment and also dreading it.
“I’m not trying to replace anybody,” he said. “I just want you to know I’m here. That I care.”
Seth snorted. “You sound like a greeting card.”
“I know.” Todd sat on the edge of the coffee table, careful not to knock over the paint tray. “But it’s true. I know I’m not your dad. I’m not trying to be.”
Seth felt his jaw tighten. “Yeah, well, someone should’ve told my mom that ten years ago.”
The words hung in the air longer than he meant them to.
Todd didn’t flinch. “She was just trying to make a life. For both of you.”
They sat in silence. The kind that felt like walking barefoot over gravel.
Finally, Todd stood. “You don’t have to help. But if you want to, I could use a second hand cutting in around the windows.”
Seth didn’t move.
Then: “You’re holding the brush wrong.”
Todd looked over. “What?”
Seth nodded at the brush in Todd’s hand. “You’re gripping it like it’s a screwdriver. You want to hold it like a pencil. Let the tip do the work.”
Todd flipped it in his hand and tried it. “Like this?”
“Closer.”
Seth stood, took the brush from him, and showed him. Their fingers brushed. Todd didn’t say anything.
They painted for a while. Quietly. The afternoon light moved across the wall as the color dried, and for a minute, it really did look like it opened up the space.
“Sugar Packets and Sidewalks”
We slept under the overhang of a closed-down laundromat on 5th. The tiles above us were cracked, and when it rained, the water whispered through the gaps like secrets we weren’t meant to hear. Mama said it used to be the kind of place with warm dryers and friendly old ladies who folded other people’s clothes better than their own. I tried to imagine it, but it was hard—like remembering a dream after waking up.
My name’s Lila. I’m eight and a half. That half matters when you’re me. My brother Jace is fourteen, but he acts like he’s thirty. He doesn’t smile much, except when I share the sugar packets, which I swipe from the gas station by the freeway. Mama says I shouldn’t steal, but I don’t think sugar counts. It’s free if they don’t see you take it. Plus, it tastes like a good day.
Mama’s eyes are tired all the time. They look like the sky right before it storms—kind of gray and waiting. She used to sing to us, soft and low, but not lately. Her voice got quieter after we lost the motel room. Now she talks only when she has to—like, “Keep walking,” or “Don’t look them in the eye.” I used to think people on the street would smile back if you smiled first. They don’t.
Some nights, we eat from the church that hands out foil-wrapped sandwiches. Sometimes, Jace skips his and gives it to me. I know he’s hungry, too, but he says, “I’m good.” That’s his favorite lie. I stopped believing it when I saw him crying in the alley behind a busted vending machine, thinking no one was watching.
We met a lady last week. She was really skinny, with blue braids and a little dog named Pancake. She let me hold him and told Mama there was a place uptown that didn’t ask questions, just gave beds and soup. But the place was full by the time we got there. I wanted to cry, but Mama just nodded like she already knew.
Jace says we’re gonna have a house one day. One with a couch you can sink into and a fridge that hums all night like it’s singing to you. I don’t tell him, but I believe him. Not because he’s always right, but because sometimes you have to believe something or else you’ll float off like a balloon someone let go of too soon.
Last night, Mama found three quarters and let me pick the snack from the corner store. I chose a honey bun. We split it three ways and ate it slowly. Jace said it tasted like Christmas.
And for a second, just a small one, it really did.
