After a moment the little patting of feet behind her joined her in the hallway. Mya looked down at herself peeking around the corner into the kitchen. She was so young then, only five years passing. She sighed softly before making her way to her younger self and into the kitchen. It was only a moment after where her parents caught her peeking into the kitchen, which was also when the words were starting to take shape, and the scene became stable.
“Mya,” her Mom said, “What are you doing out of bed, baby girl?” Her mother motioned for her younger self to come into the kitchen and she obliged. Mya wasn’t interested in what her mother had to say. Hair as black as night, her mother was an angry memory. She abandoned her after her father had died. ‘You just remind me of him,’ she had said the last time she saw her. Mya only felt anger towards her, but her father she missed. She went to stand next to him as he prepared a late night meal for himself and her she assumed.
She watched him; sadness threatened to overwhelm her, as it always did. Mya controlled her emotions well now, though, as her father turned towards her younger self. He would go to her and pick her up and have her taste the meat he had cooked before taking her back to her room and tell her a story. She loved that story, and she assumed that was why she always came back to this point, the last story that he had been able to tell her.