EMMA
I was five when I realized my imaginery friends weren't so imaginery.
Across the long table, my mother delicately cut into her chicken. When she saw me watching, she gave a dutiful smile.
It was strained.
I could almost hear the thought directed at herself, 'Pull yourself together Samantha.' I'd heard her say it in front of the mirror often, when she wasn't aware I was peeking in through the crack in her door. It'd been a mantra since dad's death.
Since then, she'd changed, gotten more sad. She didn't push me on the swings anymore.
"The pilot wants some of that," I'd said, a bit anxious to fill in the stifling silence.
She paused mid motion. "What pilot, honey?"
I pointed, like it was obvious.
Bunny, a gangly man with a cracked pair of googles and a razed dress shirt seemed t
