After we sat at the dinner table, I saw my parents whispering to each other, their eyes on Sasha. I gave Sasha a cup of warm water, which she held in both hands, savoring the warmth.
My mother then set a bowl of porridge in front of her. As she looked at the quietly eating child, I could see the stars in my mother's eyes, a look I knew all too well.
Then she turned to me, her voice stern again. "Explain."
"So," I began, "I went out for a run and came across the house that was reported for a gas explosion two days ago."
I recounted what happened, from the boys with the tasers to my passing out and Sasha's kindness in dragging me to shelter. I explained my decision to bring her home, at least for the night.
"What a nice little girl! You did a good job. As expected of my son," my mother said, her praise sounding genuine.
"Thanks, Mom," I said, unable to fully accept it. Your praises won't fool me, Mom. I know you too well.
I glanced at my dad. He had a sagely look in his eyes, as if he saw right through my mother's act. He knew that my mother's fondness for Sasha had saved me from a scolding.
You see, my mother had always wanted a daughter. Not in the sense that she preferred daughters to sons, but that she was so obsessed with the idea of having one that if she had the option, she would have had me remade into a girl.
My reincarnation, and the subsequent change in my awareness, meant that I had never worn girl's clothing, which had left her with an unfulfilled fantasy. So, now, whenever there was a girl in the house, she got all of my mother's attention.
That was why I had never brought my classmates home—not that I was close to them anyway. If Sasha hadn't been with me today, I probably would have suffered a beating, no matter what good deed I might have done outside.
After Sasha finished her food, a small, contented sigh escaping her lips, my mother turned her attention to my father and me. Her eyes, usually so warm and welcoming towards us, now held a new, almost imperious resolve.
"You two can get your dinner from the kitchen," she announced, her voice flat, the words delivered with the crisp finality of a decree. It was less an invitation and more a blunt instruction.
Then, as if a switch had been flipped, her gaze softened immediately, melting into a tender, melodic, maternal hum as it settled back on Sasha.
"I'll take Sasha to get some clothes and have a bath. Let's go, Sasha," she cooed, her words flowing like a gentle lullaby.
It was a dismissal so blatant it stung, a casual relegation to the sidelines. My mother had clearly found the daughter she'd always yearned for, a missing piece in the tapestry of her life, and she wasn't about to let the presence of two men disrupt this newfound connection.
Sasha, her small stomach full and her usual guardedness momentarily lowered by the sheer warmth of my mother's unexpected kindness, didn't hesitate for a second. She reached out, her tiny hand trustingly clasping my mother's, and allowed herself to be led away. My mother paused at the archway, glancing back at me, her face alight with a beaming, almost triumphant smile.
"Honey, you can sleep in the guest room tonight. She'll be sleeping with me," she declared, the words hanging in the air like brightly colored confetti, before she disappeared around the corner, Sasha's small frame trailing eagerly behind her.
My father exhaled slowly, a quiet, resigned sound that carried the weight of years of understanding. There was no anger, no surprise, just a profound and immediate acceptance of our swiftly altered landscape.
"So, what's the deal?" I asked him, a hint of frustration and bewilderment lacing my voice, the sudden, undeniable shift in our household hierarchy hitting me hard. He turned, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a wry, knowing smile that spoke of battles long lost and new realities quickly absorbed.
"There's no deal, son," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Just accept it. Our position in the house just got downgraded by a rank." With that pronouncement, he ambled towards the kitchen, leaving me standing alone, grappling with the sudden, unsettling reality of our diminished status.
After eating a quick, almost flavorless dinner, I retreated to the familiar sanctuary of my room. As I finally lay back on my bed, the day's chaotic rush began to subside, and my mind, for the first time in hours, found a moment to truly rest. Yet, instead of peace, a cascade of vivid memories, both past and future, flooded my consciousness.
As I ventured deeper into my mind, I suddenly realized I possessed more recollections of the future than before, like my unconsciousness had earlier acted as a spillway, pulling these memories hidden somewhere within me.
Skimming over these newly awakened memories, having only a rough, overwhelming look at them, a profound sigh escaped my lips. The immense weight of both my past life and the perplexing future settled heavily upon my shoulders, I sighed "The future is certainly troublesome."
"It is, isn't it?" a calm, almost melodic voice answered, cutting through the stillness.
"Sure is," I replied subconsciously, my mind still caught in the hazy afterglow of the memories, processing the echo of my own thought. But then I froze. That voice. It wasn't my own.
My head snapped up, my body rigid with an instant, primal alarm. I scrambled to my feet, my body instantly on high alert, every nerve screaming. There, sitting calmly in the armchair by my desk, was a bald woman in flowing yellow robes, a delicate porcelain cup of tea cradled in her hands. She looked at me with a knowing smile, her eyes, ancient and wise, glinting with a mischievous light that belied her serene posture.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, silent appearance of another person in the confines of my room.