Sarah
Worn, weathered hands cup mine in the warmth of a room covered in faded wallpaper. Toys are scattered across a woven carpet of muted greens and yellows, and small voices lift in glee and mischief, blurred and faceless.
The hands around mine are so large compared to my small, child-sized hands. Warm and rough, tender and caring, they curl around my fingers in a mother’s touch.
“I know you're young,” the woman says, her face a fuzzy, fractured memory, “but you’ve lived through more than anyone should have to experience in one lifetime.”
I’m eleven. Rain slams against the windows beside us. The landscape is a tangle of fog and storm clouds with nothing but a turbulent sea beyond. I’m just a child. I should be able to enjoy my childhood and not have to deal with all of this.
“Look
