Standing inside my old house, I was pulled back to a time before we’d ever left. It was a year after my dad’s death, and I was nine years old. The deep navy sofa was still old and lumpy, but newer than the one I remembered. There were no lipstick stains from Bianca and me or small tears from the time I’d brought a stray kitten home. My younger self sat on the couch, my bare toes almost brushing the floor, a bowl of popcorn in my hands, grinning at the television as some colorful movie played.
Moonlight filtered dimly through the sheer curtains, casting a soft glow in the living room. This felt like one of those movie nights Mom and I used to have often, though I didn’t specifically remember this one. When Mom came downstairs, my breath hitched as I gazed at her familiar, smiling face. She
