ANNASOPHIA
Listening to Alexandra snore, I sink into the cloud-soft mattress. The ice Patel brought me numbs the pins and needles in my ankle, but the headache from hell won’t stop banging my skull. I inhale, hold, release my breath to the count of four, seven and eight. Michael never missed an opportunity to disparage stress management through yogic breathing.
How many endless nights did I lie next to the father of my children, wishing I’d wake up and he’d be gone and never return? Eyes open, I’d dreamed of a golden life of good times and fun and laughter that would wipe away the years of verbal and emotional abuse.
Michael’s murder literally opened a door to a new house. Magnus, Anastaysa, and I spent hours laughing and decorating and creating a real home. Their adjustment at school, plus their acceptance of our easy, relaxed lifestyle, gilded my good-life fantasies. Alexandra’s surliness, disrespect for everyone, and repeated curfew violations cast a black cloud over the blue skies and unbearable happiness.
Stupidly, like a foster kid believing a loving family will adopt her, I clung to the hope Alexandra would come round. She, I suspect, longed for her father to ride to her rescue.
Bile stings my throat. I pull the sheet over her shoulder. She moans and flops on her other side—as if my touch is poisonous.
She’s asleep. Nothing personal. She’s asleep.
A small piece of my mind accepts the logic—rejected by my whole heart.
“AnnaSophia, are you crying?” Satish whispers, sounding far away in front of the door.
Nostrils flared, I swallow the tears pooled in my throat. Years of silent crying prompt me to revert to survival mode. I mash a fist against my lips and hold my breath. Four, seven …
He leaves the question unanswered.