dark love ❤😈

part 1

Rose (sana's mom)
**past**

I'm sitting at the breakfastnook sipping from a mug of cocoa when the phone rings.I'm lost in thought, staring out the back window at the lawn that now, in the throes of an early fall, abounds withleaves. They're dead mostly,some still clinging lifelessly to the trees. It's late afternoon. The sky is overcast, the temperatures doing a nosedive into the forties and fifties. I'm not ready for this, I think,wondering where in the world the time has gone. Seems like just yesterday we were welcoming spring and then,moments later, summer.The phone startles me and I'm certain it's a telemarketer, so I don't initially bother to rise from my perch. I relish the last few hours of silence I have before James comes thundering through the front doors and intrudes upon my world, and the last thing I want to do is waste precious minutes on some telemarketer's sales pitch that I'm certain to refuse.The irritating noise of the phone stops and then starts again answer it for no other reason than to make it stop.
“Hello?” I ask in a vexed tone, standing now in the center of the kitchen, one hip pressed against the island. “Mrs. Dawson?” the woman asks. I consider for a moment telling her that she’s got the wrong number, or ending her pitch right there with a simple not interested. “This is she.” “Mrs. Dawson this is Meeti ”
I’ve heard the name before. I’ve never met her, but she’s been constant in sana’s life for over a year now. How many times have I heard sana say her name: meeti and I did this...meeti and I did that.... She is explaining how she knows sana, how the two of them teach together at the alternative high school in the city.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything, ” she says.
I catch my breath.
“Oh, no, Meeti, I just walked in the door, ” I lie.
Sana will be twenty-five in just a month: january 27 and so I assume meeti has called about this. She wants to plan a party—a surprise party?—for my daughter.
“Mrs. Dawson , sana didn’t show up for work today, ” she says.
This isn’t what I expect to hear. It takes a moment to regroup. “Well, she must be sick, ” I respond.
My first thought is to cover for my daughter; she must have a viable explanation why she didn’t go to work or call in her absence. My daughter is a
free spirit, yes, but also reliable.
“You haven’t heard from her?”
“No, ” I say, but this isn’t unusual. We go days, sometimes weeks, without speaking. Since the invention of email, our best form of communication has become passing along trivial forwards.
“I tried calling her at home but there’s no answer.”
“Did you leave a message?”
“Several.”
“And she hasn’t called back?”
“No.”
I’m listening only halfheartedly to the woman on the other end of the line. stare out the window, watching the neighbor's children shake a flimsy tree so that the remaining leaves fall down upon them. The children are my clock; when they appear in the backyard I know that it’s late afternoon, school is through. When they disappear inside again it’s time to start dinner.
“Her cell phone?”
“It goes straight to voice mail.”
“Did you—”
“I left a message.”
“You’re certain she didn’t call in today?”
“Administration never heard from her.”
I’m worried that sana will get in trouble. I’m worried that she will be fired. The fact that she might already be in trouble has yet to cross my mind.
“I hope this hasn’t caused too much of a problem.”

Meeti explains that sana’s first-period students didn’t inform anyone of the teacher’s absence and it wasn’t until second period that word finally leaked out:
Ms. Dawson wasn’t here today and there wasn’t a sub. The principal went down to keep order until a substitute could be called in; he found gang graffiti scribbled across the walls with sana’s overpriced art supplies, the ones she bought herself when the administration said no.
“Mrs. Dawson, don’t you think it’s odd?” she asks.
“This isn’t like sana ”
“Oh, meeti , I’m certain she has a good excuse.”
“Such as?” she asks.
“I’ll call the hospitals. There’s a number in her area —”
“I’ve done that.”
“Then her friends, ” I say,
but I don’t know any of sana’s friends. I’ve heard names in passing, such as meeti and Madhu But I don’t
know them, and last names or contact information are hard to find.
“I’ve done that.”
“She’ll show up, meeti
This is all just a misunderstanding. There could be a million reasons for
this.”
“Mrs. Dawson ” meeti says and it’s then that it hits me: something is wrong. It hits me in the stomach and the first thought I have is myself seven or eight months pregnant with sana and her stalwart limbs kicking and punching so hard that tiny feet and hands emerge in shapes through my skin. I pull out a barstool and sit at the kitchen island and think to myself that before I know it, Sana will be twenty-five and I haven’t so much as thought of a gift. I haven’t proposed a party or suggested that all of us, James,Grace,sana and me, make reservations for an elegant dinner in the city “What do you suggest we do, then?” I ask.
There’s a sigh on the other end of the line. “I was hoping you’d tell me she was with you, ” she says.

~~~~~~~~~~~
So where is sana with his soul mate sid or somewhere else ??
Stay tuned

Initially you will find the chapters boring but soon u will develop intrest in this
Loads of love
Xoxo. ❤