My mind slipped—unprompted and uncontrollable—into one of the only memories I had left of my childhood.
I’d been told the gaps in my memory were from trauma. The kind that rewired your brain permanently. Years spent drifting through foster homes could do that to a person. Years of being unwanted left me chasing scraps of affection in all the wrong places—in the arms of men who held me when it suited them, then lost interest the second they got what they wanted.
Most of those hurts eventually dulled. The names, the faces, the sting of being left behind…
But not this.
This memory stayed.
I looked down at the ring still wrapped around my finger—feeling it tighten like a vice. It had been part of the lie, just a propin a story. But now, it felt like something else entirely. A symbol I hadn’t asked for. A weight I hadn’t meant to carry.
I reached for it, gripping the band between my thumb and index finger, and pulled.
It wouldn’t move—just like the memory that pressed in, heavy and inevitable.
I twisted harder, my breath catching in my throat.
“Come on,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut.
But it was too late.
The memory had already taken hold, unspooling inside me, beginning to end, whether I wanted it to or not.
“Hurry up,”my mother snapped, yanking my hand until I stumbled over the lip of the sidewalk. “You’re making me late again… always dragging your feet like an infant.”
Her heels clacked against the pavement—loud, sharp, fast. Her grip around my wrist pinched, but I didn’t dare say a word. I just tried to keep up, taking two steps for every one of hers. My jelly shoes slapped against my heels, rubbing a blister I wouldn’t dare complain about.
She didn’t look at me. Not once.
But I looked up at her—always.
She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Her skirt swished when she walked, and her jacket had shiny gold buttons that gleamed in the sunlight. But it was her shoes I couldn’t stop staring at—the deep red ones with tall, skinny heels that clicked like a secret code only she could understand.
She had a whole collection of them, lined up in her closet like soldiers. I wasn’t allowed in there, not even to peek.
"Those are not for playing,” she’d snapped once when she caught me slipping one onto my foot. “Do you know how much those cost? They're for women, not babies.”
So, I stopped asking. But I never stopped watching. One day, I promised myself, I’d have a pair just like the red ones she wore that day. I'd learn to walk like her too—tall, fast, untouchable.
We reached a tall building with glass doors, and she pulled me inside without slowing down. “You’re going to stay here for a while,” she whispered, crouching just enough to speak low and quick. “Keep to yourself. Don’t bother anyone. Don’t try to follow me.”
The place smelled like floor polish and something sharp, like medicine. I tried to read the letters on the wall, but I didn’t really know how to yet. She pushed the elevator button and dragged me in behind her.
When it started to rise, my stomach flipped, and I reached out without thinking.
She actually let me hold her hand.
I didn’t breathe. I didn’t move. I just held it—lightly, carefully—afraid she’d pull away.
When the doors opened, she led me through a maze of hallways until we reached a quiet waiting room at the back. Rows of chairs. A vending machine humming in the corner.
She walked straight to it, crouched to her haunches, and took a handful of quarters from her purse. “Watch,” she said, her voice clipped, like patience was something she’d already used up hours ago.
She slid the coins into the slot one by one, pressed a few buttons, and a candy bar dropped with a heavy thunk behind the glass.
She unwrapped it, handed it to me, then guided me to a row of chairs and sat me down.
A man in a wheelchair sat across from me—old and gray, his eyes foggy, staring straight through me like I wasn’t even there.
