Roman
I’m not sure I’m going to be able to pry my mother’s arms away from Samara. As soon as we walk into my office, she pulls my mate onto a couch beside her, hugging her tightly again. My father stares at them then turns to me with a look that is equal parts relief and grief.
“Have a seat, Dad. This story isn’t a good one.”
My father and I pull up chairs, creating a small circle. I know the story is hard for Samara, so before I ask her to start, I tell my mom she has to let her go and I pull her into my lap.
“Start where you started with me,” I tell her, wrapping my arms around her as she leans against me. I connect to her mind, watching it replay again as she tells the story. I feel her fingers intertwine with mine as the emotions of her memory resurface, her hands clenching tighter
