PROLOGUE
A whisper of autumn’s breeze snuck into my room through the cracks of my window frame. One of these days, I’ll bother to call a carpenter to fix it before the upcoming fall chill makes the experience unpleasant rather than a welcome break from September’s humidity. Maybe it can’t handle any more fixing, maybe it’s finally time to replace all our window frames and be set for the next decade or so.
Not my choice to make, ultimately.
I heard my mother’s quiet sobs from her bedroom. It was three in the morning, earlier than usual. Good thing I haven’t had it in me to fall asleep.
Her door was open, and the hall lights were on, mirroring the setup I had as a little girl, terrified of the dark. The floorboards creaked under my feet. I didn’t take any precautions to avoid the extra loud ones I’d memorized ages ago. She stirred in her sleep, red hair spread across her pillows, threatening to engulf the sheets in its flames. My mother crying would have brought me to tears once. It’s probably heartless to say I’ve been desensitized to the sound recently, and I recoil at the thought, but during these long nights, my tiredness overcame my emotions.
I sat on the edge of the bed and clasped my mom’s shoulder, nudging her with a gentleness that would surprise her enough to comment on during the day. Her wet eyes shot open faster than I anticipated, and her quiet sobs turned into loud bawling. And it went on, and on, and on, until she was holding me tight to her body, trying to calm her breathing.
No words were exchanged between us, and rarely are after her nightmares. Or flashbacks, however she’d call them. I knew what she was seeing, knew what memories caused a reaction so visceral and intense. I ran my fingers through her slowly-greying hair, coarse under my touch. It hasn’t been that long, I kept thinking to myself, I can’t expect her to be fully okay by now.
I never expected myself to be calm about it, either. Yet here I am, holding my weeping mother close, void of any emotion that mattered. She’d wake up in the morning and call it strength. She’d cup my cheek and coo about how brave I was, thank me for being there for her when she needed it the most. And I’d smile for her and tell her that I’ll always be there. That I’m sad, too.
It’s easier than explaining how truly, painfully empty I’ve become.
