she’s two , maybe , but she’s not entirely sure. she doesn’t remember it well enough , anyway , and she’s almost CERTAIN that it’s something she made up in her head. some fake memory to cradle at night , when her parents were arguing in whispered tones about things she really doesn’t remember. she’s in her mom’s arms , with her dad holding her tiny little fingers. if this memory happened at all , that’s what’s true --- that’s what she remembers most clearly. the warmth of her mother’s arms as she clung to her hip. the bones in her father’s hands in her tiny fist.
she didn’t see the broken car window. doesn’t really know how she remembers it , beyond a distant memory of her mother’s horrified gasp. remembers her mom having to stop her dad from pulling something out --- something that , in hindsight , vanessa realizes is probably a gun , laser or otherwise. that feels right. feels in character. something he would do. her dad’s always been a vengeful kind of person. her mom says something that vanessa can’t remember , but she remembers the way her dad’s harsh face smoothed over , the calm way the anger melts from his features. when he isn’t angry about something , the angles of his face look more like comforting mountains instead of razor sharp edges. that’s what she knows best. the soft waves of her mother’s voice , the way it crashed against her father’s righteous rage and smoothed its edges.
they loved each other , once. they grew apart , and it happens. but they loved each other once. and that knowledge alone makes her life a little easier. she is the product of LOVE. she thinks she felt the wind of the broken window on her face in her car seat , and whenever she feels a breeze now , she thinks , they loved each other once.
