“Let me help you get ready for bed,” Mama says once the dishes have been cleaned, in that tone that means it’s not really a request. It’s so achingly familiar that I can’t refuse.
We go upstairs, arm in arm. She sits me at the vanity, just like when I was little, and begins brushing my hair. The repetitive strokes are soothing, almost hypnotic. Each stroke of the silver brush pulls me backward—toward princess braids before school plays, to nights just like this one. All the tiny little moments of normality woven in between the darker chapters.
“You used to yelp when I hit a snarl,” she murmurs, working through a knot at my nape. Her reflection smiles in the vanity mirror. “Remember?”
“I don’t miss those detangler tears,” I laugh. The scent of her almond oil makes my throat ache. You don
