Christina McDonald

She hadn’t been fine for a while.

securing myself to the present while the past threatened to overtake me.

never forgotten that feeling of not belonging, like wearing someone else’s shoes and feeling the pain all over.

I was just scared of not being liked.

was like a study in self control—she frowned but never yelled; she smiled but never laughed too loud; her makeup was always lightly done, her clothes neatly ironed.

Mom was as steady as a statue. There was none of that flighty, hyper-gossipy vibe that some of my friends’ moms had.

My mom was a toucher. She patted my shoulders, stroked my hair, kissed my cheek, hugged me. She held my hand when we crossed the road until I was ten and started getting teased about it. Once I asked her why she always touched me and she said, “I guess it makes me feel more connected to you.”

Olivia and I were linked by birth, by life. I wouldn’t leave her in death.

Despair swirled inside me, a relentless fog that made me incapable of anything: eating, drinking, moving.

if someone had grabbed her, staining her beautiful skin with the color of anger.