The Night Olivia Fell

As I got older, I learned I was perfectly fine on my own. In fact, I preferred it that way. I didn’t need any better friend than my daughter.

Besides, I was really more of an observer than a participator. I was better at standing on the sidelines.

wasn’t that I didn’t like people, just that I didn’t really have anything interesting to talk about.

loving me, then turning away; being there, then . . .

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

did that sometimes: worried and questioned and analyzed until I found a rational reason. I needed the whole picture to understand the details. The problem was that it never changed anything.

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

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

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.”