But. . .why did I have that dream again? Was it a warning or a message? Why can’t I stop thinking of that stupid moment during my childhood?
It always came to me in odd times in my life.
That dream.
That hallway.
That damned sad view of my mother with the heartbreaking song.
That little girl who thought her sadness wasn’t urgent because her mother’s was always louder.
I swallowed.
There were lessons a woman learned in childhood that she didn’t realize she even learned until years later. Lessons that crept in the heart and stayed long after she had forgotten who first said them or what had happened to make her think that way.
Some things a person doesn’t have to be told to believe—they just graft into the spine.
That memory. . .that night became a scripture writing within me. A gospel of lessons I didn’t know I was reciting all my life:
Women wait in beauty.
Men forget to come home.
Love is abandonment.
And music becomes confession when no one is listening.
That was what I saw as a little girl. That was what I learned. Not because my mother taught it, but because I watched her live it.
You’re not that little girl anymore so stop it.
I ran my fingers along the edge of the bed, pausing at the perfect pillow, cool to the touch. Kenji hadn’t slept beside me. Not even for a second.
And I hated that it still made me feel. . .alone like her.
Even though I knew he was at war. Even though I told myself I wasn’t that kind of woman. Even though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t love like that.
Ever.
Stop thinking about it. That was just a dream.
Yet, my chest ached.
My stomach felt hollow.
My jaw tightened even though I had no reason to be angry.
I almost wanted to call my mother.
Almost.
But I wasn’t ready.
The calls were always so awkward—measured and tight, like we were both holding our breath, waiting for someone to blink first.
She answered because she felt she had to.
I called because I felt I should.
