Chapter 3: A Mother’s Last Words

When my mother died, she felt happy, even relieved. She grabbed my hand and pressed it to her cold cheek. Blood seeped from the corner of her mouth, but her eyes shone with gentle joy—as if she were a child who’d accomplished something big, longing for praise. So lovely, so sad.

I still remember how her hand trembled in mine, how the room smelled like lavender sachets and old wood. Her voice, barely more than a breath, curled around me like the last notes of a lullaby. In that moment, time paused, and for a heartbeat, I could almost believe she’d finally found the peace Savannah never gave her. Her perfume lingered—lavender and old paper. I wanted to bottle that moment, keep it safe from the rot that crept through this house.

“My Anna, when you grow up, you won’t be a stepping stone for your father and brother’s future.”

“My Anna will study, marry a good man she loves, and live a happy life.”

She pressed my fingers, her own growing colder, as if her hope could anchor me in a world that would keep trying to drag me under. I clung to her words as the last bright thing she left behind.

In that moment, her eyes brimmed with hope—for my future, smooth and bright.

But Mom, in a woman’s life, where is there a smooth road? Whether as wife, girlfriend, housekeeper, or nanny, aren’t we all just barely surviving as accessories to men?

Some nights I lie awake listening to the distant train whistles and think about all the girls like me, mapped out in someone else’s blueprint. In Savannah, we’re measured by our usefulness, not our dreams. I wondered if Mom had ever known what it felt like to be more than someone’s plan.