Chapter 7

She was right that she didn't deserve to.

When I was twelve, I came down with a fever of 104 degrees over the Christmas holidays.

Gran carried me on her back all the way to the clinic — forty minutes through a blizzard. She fell three times. Her knees were bleeding through her tights by the time we got there.

I was half-conscious, draped across her back, and through my delirium I thought I saw a shape in the snow ahead of us. A familiar silhouette.

"Gran," I mumbled. "Is that Mum? Did Mum come?"

Gran didn't answer. She just hitched me higher on her back and walked faster.

That night I burned through till morning, calling for my mother in my sleep.

When I woke up, Gran's eyes were red and swollen. "Did Mum come?" I asked.

She rubbed her eyes. Nodded. "She came. Stayed the whole night. Left just before dawn."

I bolted out of bed and ran outside to look.

I would've taken a single glimpse. Even a silhouette disappearing around a corner.

There was no one.

It took me years to understand the truth. Someone who was never really there can't leave a shadow behind.