A Snapshot of Sara

There was a mirror between us. A two-way mirror. I was lying in bed numb, overwhelmed, guilty, grateful, and more in love than I had ever been all at once. She sat up and passed her three children through to me, one by one. As if to say, “It’s okay, you’ll do what I couldn’t.” And they cuddled up next to me the way they already were when I woke up.

I wasn’t ready to be a mom. Not like that. Not suddenly or to fill the shoes of a ghost. But there I was — half raising kids that weren’t mine, and in the same breath also finding honour, healing, and a strange kind of meaning in the self-sacrifice.

She stayed in hotels. Pregnant. Alone. Three kids, back-to-back. Her body kept whispering what her mind hadn’t caught up to yet. That she wasn’t safe. Still, she thought she was lucky. Engaged to this hardworking, handsome guy who moved her away so he could take care of her. Stress. Anxiety. Nausea. Headaches. Migraines. Insomnia. Three babies and the promise of a better tomorrow that never came. Holidays turned lacklustre when she was the only one excited about them. And any other day that was meant to be special somehow always ended in a fight or tears anyway.

Parenting alone. Cooking, cleaning, decorating alone. Planning, booking trips, arranging appointments — all alone.

A never-ending, tangled mental-emotional-physical to-do list. He came home late every day, or not at at all, so she didn’t have to work. She only once dared to ask why the long hours never translated into their life. Not into love, peace, or their savings. She learned to just keep up appearances. Gave blue ribbons for the bare minimum. And played her part well as a good wife. Everyone told her she was lucky. But what kind of luck is it to live with someone who makes absence feel heavier in their presence?

He didn’t actually think she’s a bad cook or bad driver — it was just a joke.

He didn’t like, comment, or reply to her posts, even after being online all day — it’s just Facebook.

He didn’t walk beside her and always sped ahead — he just walks fast. He brought her flowers, the ones she said would poison her cat — he just forgot.

She needed help when he came home, and he fell asleep before dinner — he was just tired.

She went to bed early for an important day, and he kept her up all night — he just needed to talk. She was sick and asked him to get medicine — he said she just needed rest. When she literally lost her voice and begged for no more questions — he just wanted answers.

When she wanted to get a job, he told her she already had one — and just laughed.

He’d get half-cut on a full moon, speaking in tongues about redemption through suffering. Word salad. Bombastic syntax (BS). No question or answer ever made it less confusing.

So the honeymoon was over well before the wedding. It’s unbelievable how we sometimes cling to the words I love you, even when the actions scream I hate you.

Sara died young in her sleep. Of a brain bleed, they say. Not a gunshot, not a car crash, not an accident. Just her body giving up under too much pressure.

I felt her story bleeding into my body like I was a karmic pawn. Was I living out her unfinished story, or did he want to control the ending by rewriting it through someone else?

Sometimes I think she knew. That she handed them to me not just out of hope, but out of grief. Like she wanted me to do what she couldn’t. Break the cycle. Stay alive. Stay whole. To show those little ones what love really is and isn’t, even if it ultimately included tearing myself away from them to stay away from him. “God, please don’t let me kill this girl.” I’m lucky he prayed for me.

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