You just stood there. It was freezing cold. And white. God, I remember the whiteness of everything – the buildings, the trees, cars, streets. I’d never seen anything like it. Just hours before the three of us had been laughing and playing and dancing in that snow. Happy. For the first time in ages. I can remember you and Mom shouting at each other a lot around that time. Then, out of the blue, we were on a plane to a land I’d never heard of. And from the moment we stepped onto that plane until… you know… until that morning, I never heard you guys yell at each other again. It was beautiful. It was magical. Almost eerie, like I expected the roaring to start at any time, and the longer you went on without doing it, the more imminent it felt. And so even though I relished every minute of that trip – until that morning – I always had this sense of trepidation happening inside of me, a quiver in the stillness that grew louder and stronger the quieter things were. More than anything, I hated that the most. Because you two looked so radiant, so relaxed. But I couldn’t relax, couldn’t hand over completely to the joy I so desperately sought. And, I’m ashamed to admit, I despised you both for that. I reached a point where I started to pray for a yelling match between you guys, just so that I could feel normal again. I contrived ways of manipulating each of you on your own to set you against one another. But I never did, because intrigue of the unknown was stronger than the fear of what I already knew.