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With each word come memories, filtered through shards of broken glass.
Because if I am the poker chip, then I have to wait to see how I’ll be played. The unknown is the hardest. Which might explain why we try so hard to rule our worlds. It is the only hope we have to make sense of our lives.
A woman who rarely spoke during my childhood now says so much:
We learned the steps of this dance years ago, my mother and I tiptoeing around Marin’s words. It was an unspoken agreement we made when Marin moved back to town. Never allow Marin’s way to break the fragile family we have left.
It is a whisper in my hair, her words so quiet they are almost lost.
Like stepchildren, they were never allowed to forget their place: a few steps outside the circle of the real family.
That she had broken the cycle of hurt and disappointment, and that her daughter was the future.
The realization that her father might never emerge from his coma—that the man who defined her life was now losing his—jars her.
Secrets stay better hidden in darkness. Judgments fall to the wayside when there is no light to shine upon them.
