When I regained consciousness, I heard water.
I felt something being squeezed out of my nose and lungs, little by little.
I opened my mouth and let out a loud, clear cry.
“It’s a girl.”
I fought to open my eyes, struggling to focus.
But the lights in the delivery room were too bright. Everything was a blur.
Then I heard Mom’s voice.
“Welcome to the world, sweetheart.”
I used every ounce of strength I had to look at her.
I was afraid that if I closed my eyes, she’d disappear again.
Afraid this was only a hallucination in my final moments.
I was afraid I was still on that living room floor, lavender shortbread stuffed into my mouth, my eyes forced open so I couldn’t look away from the screen.
But her fingers brushed my cheek, and her tears fell onto my face.
“Welcome, my little princess.”
I burst into tears.
Every hurt, every fear, every moment of despair from my previous life came rushing back.
All of it poured out of this tiny new body.
Mother panicked and quickly gathered me into her arms, patting my back.
“Shh, sweetheart, don’t cry. Mommy’s here.”
I buried my face against her chest and listened to her heartbeat.
Thank goodness.
In this life, I was still my mother’s daughter.
Time passed, and I slowly grew.
When I learned to talk, my first word was “Mom.”
She picked me up and spun around three times, laughing until she cried.
When I learned to walk, my first steps carried me straight toward her.
I toddled forward and tumbled into her arms.
She hugged me tight.
“That’s my girl!”
Sometimes, looking at her face, I’d find myself slipping into a daze.
She was so much younger than she’d been in my last life.
There were no bruises around her eyes, no blood at the corners of her mouth, none of that worn-out exhaustion that life had carved into her face.
Still, sometimes I froze.
When she stood in the kitchen baking lavender shortbread cookies, I’d crouch in the doorway and stare at her back, my whole body suddenly going rigid.
I was terrified that when she turned around, there would be blood on her face.
“Sweetheart?”
Mother noticed me crouching there and set the plate aside. She knelt and cupped my cheeks.
“What’s wrong? What are you thinking about?”
I shook my head and threw myself into her arms.
“Mommy, hold me.”
She laughed, lifted me up, and turned in a circle.
“Someone’s extra cuddly today.”
I wrapped my arms around her neck and rested my chin on her shoulder.
Behind her, Father was smiling at us.
In this life, Mother had married a good man.
He didn’t gamble, drink, or smoke.
The first thing he did when he came home from work was lift me high into the air.
He read me bedtime stories every night.
Sometimes he fell asleep before I did, snoring louder than the giants in my fairy tales.
Mother would nudge him with her foot.
“Keep it down. Sweetheart’s asleep.”
He’d wake groggily, stroke my head, then fall right back asleep.
Yet I always felt as though I should have an older brother.
At dinner, I’d set an extra place at the table.
While watching TV, I’d glance at the empty spot beside me.
Mother and Father exchanged amused, bewildered looks.
“Sweetheart, who are you looking for?”
“My brother.”
They exchanged a glance and laughed.
“But there’s no way for us to give you an older brother.”
“I do have one.”
I stubbornly shook my head.
“I have a big brother.”
Mother paused and crouched to look me in the eyes.
“Sweetheart, how do you know that?”
I thought about it.
“From my last life.”
They laughed even harder.
Father lifted me into the air and spun me around.
“Were you a little princess in your last life, sweetheart? Did you have a big brother to protect you?”
I laughed too and didn’t try to explain.
I hoped Evan was doing well.
I hoped someone would love him and treat him kindly in this life, too.
I nestled into Mother’s arms, closed my eyes, and listened to her heartbeat.
In this life, I had only one wish.
To live well, and to spend a happy life with Mother.