Chapter 29 - What Do You See?
Emma changed her major twice.
First psychology.
Then public policy.
Then back to psychology with a minor in something Sarah never fully understood but pretended to follow.
She called often at first.
Then less.
Then in bursts.
A photo of terrible cafeteria pancakes.
A rant about a professor who used “resilience” too casually.
A voice note of rain because rainy mornings still made her think of Sarah’s leg.
A text at 1:12 a.m.:
I am okay. Just sad. Don’t drive here.
Sarah stared at that message for five minutes before obeying.
Growth was humiliating.
Thomas said so.
During sophomore year, Emma volunteered for a crisis text line.
Sarah worried.
Dr. Morgan said worrying was allowed; controlling was optional.
Emma loved the work.
Not because it was easy.
Because it was structured.
A person in fear sent words into darkness.
A trained responder answered.
Not with rescue fantasy.
With grounding.
Where are you?
Are you safe right now?
What do you see?
The first time Emma used that question with someone else, she had to mute herself afterward and cry.
The texter was thirteen.
Home.
Bathroom.
Dad yelling.
Mom crying.
Little brother hiding.
Emma’s hands shook over the keyboard.
For one second, she was four.
Then she was nineteen.
Trained.
Supervised.
Not alone.
She typed:
Look around and name three things you can see.
The response came slowly.
blue towel
sink
my shoes
Emma breathed.
Good. You are doing well. Is there a safe adult you can contact?
Later, after the supervisor took over and emergency protocols moved forward, Emma walked outside and called Sarah.
Sarah answered on the first ring.
“Bug?”
Emma said nothing.
Sarah did not rush her.
That was their inheritance now.
Finally Emma whispered, “I asked someone what they saw.”
Sarah closed her eyes.
“Oh, baby.”
“I didn’t know it would feel like that.”
“I know.”
“I’m not Grandpa.”
“No.”
“I’m not you.”
“No.”
“I’m me.”
Sarah smiled through tears.
“Yes.”
Emma sat on a campus bench under a tree, phone pressed to her ear, and watched students cross the quad laughing with backpacks and coffee cups.
Ordinary life kept moving around extraordinary pain.
That used to anger her.
Now it steadied her.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I think I want to do this work.”
Sarah looked at the framed photo on her desk.
Emma at sixteen, holding the blue pancake plate.
Thomas grinning beside her.
The memory box in the background.
“Then we make a plan,” Sarah said.
Emma laughed softly.
“Of course we do.”
But this plan did not feel like escape.
It felt like purpose.
May you like
That was different.
That was hers.
