“It happened every night,” she explains. “We would wake you up, stop your screaming, and then put you back to sleep.” I vaguely remember it. I was so young. She swallows. “One night, I just waited for you to fall asleep,” she says, “and I crawled in next to you.” She looks back at me. “Nothing. No terrors,” she tells me. “And the next night, the same thing. No terrors when I slept with you.” My chin trembles, and I clench my jaw to stop it. A tear falls down her cheek and she can only manage a whisper. “You just needed what everyone needs,” she tells me. “A home.”
