Page 144 of It Should Have Been You

Darkness engulfs the room as a sudden scream severs the silence. My heart lurches, the tranquility of sleep instantly replaced by an onslaught of adrenaline. Before I can fully react, I hear the pitter-patter of feet approaching, and the door to my room creaks open.

“Mom, are you sleeping?” The voice is soft, almost drowned out by the whispering wind outside.

“No, baby. What happened?” I ask, my voice heavy with the remnants of sleep.

Her cheeks glisten as she moves closer. Yet, instead of seeking the comfort of my embrace as she usually does after nightmares, she settles herself cross-legged on the bed.

Gingerly, I wipe away the tear tracks on her face, coaxing her to open up.

“Nightmare?”

She nods.

“Bad one?” I ask, my heart hammering against my chest as a familiar sense of dread starts to settle. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“I was dreaming of daddy.”

Her statement is simple, yet the implications hit me like a wave. I swallow the lump in my throat before I choke on it, my mind racing to process as I anticipate what comes next.

“Dreaming of dad isn’t a bad thing.” I force my voice to remain steady, offering her a comforting smile that hides the turmoil raging inside me.

I’m no longer tired.

“He told me he loved me and gave me a hug.”

Fresh tears prickle in my eyes. I blink them away and pull her closer, pressing a kiss on her forehead. “He did love you. Very much.”

Reaching for the glass of water on my nightstand, I encourage her to drink.

“What else did you dream about?”

“The fire,” she whispers, and my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach.

Fire.

That word always brings back a rush of unwanted memories. Memories of him. Memories that stoke the embers of my resentment for him.

The nightmares have been sporadic over the last two years. They stopped in the months since we moved here… until tonight.

As her confession hangs in the air, I squeeze her hand, offering the only comfort I can. A soft sigh escapes my lips as I pull her into my arms, repeating, “You’re safe,” until we both believe it.

The morning is still hours away. There’s still time to lull her back to sleep, to offer some respite from the terror of her dream.

“Want some warm milk to help you get back to sleep?”

With a nod, she agrees, and I gently slide off the bed.

The house is silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. I pour a small glass of milk, popping it in the microwave to warm. A light catches my eye from Logan’s house. Clad in nothing but shorts, his fists beat against his punching bag over and over.

It looks like our house isn’t the only one not welcoming sleep tonight.

Back in the bedroom, I find her waiting, her large eyes following my movements. I watch as she sips slowly, her eyelids drooping as the comforting warmth of the drink takes effect.

Her gaze falls to my ankle, her fingers reaching out to touch the silvery skin. “What happened?”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “You always ask about that scar.”

She shrugs. “I like when you tell me.”

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