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Chapter Eight

Dr. Maya Sorin

Consciousness comes to me in slow, gentle waves. The softness beneath me feels too comfortable to be right. I stretch my arms over my head, reluctant to open my eyes just yet. The bed is soft, the mattress dipping in just the right way. I turn to my side, slipping my arm under the pillow to provide added height.

Wait. Mattress? Pillow?

My eyes fly open.

I’m in my bedroom. The morning light filters through my blue curtains, painting the walls with a soft, golden glow. I sit up, disoriented. The last thing I remember is being outside, wrapped in a blanket, another one underneath me, wearing a sweater for additional warmth. I hadn’t been able to sleep. Something was clawing at my insides, the four walls of my bedroom—which I had once considered my safe haven—sending my mind back to that small cell.

It was a final act of desperation when I walked out of the cottage. The cold, crisp, October air was a relief. I could breathe. I felt free.

Each step left the lingering trauma behind as I spread one blanket on the ground and covered myself with the other.

And then...Griffin.

My breath catches.

I remember his voice, deep and steady in the darkness. His muscled arm supporting my head. His body so warm, his presence reassuring.

But that couldn’t have been real, could it?

I must have been dreaming. I scan my room for evidence. My shoes are neatly placed by the dresser. My sweater is hanging from my chair. Everything seems normal, undisturbed.

It had to have been a dream. Why would Griffin leave his comfortable room in the palace to come lie down with me in the dirt?

Clearly, my little stint in the cell shook some of my brain cells loose.

Still feeling unsettled, I slide out of bed. The smell of coffee and something sweet drifts under my door.

Mom must be up.

My stomach growls in response, and I decide to shelve my confusion for now. Coffee first, existential questions later.

I pull on a cardigan and pad out of my room, following the enticing aroma down the hallway toward our kitchen. As I approach, I hear the familiar sounds of a spoon against a mixing bowl and soft humming—my mother’s unconscious habit when she cooks.

I pause at the kitchen doorway, my heart suddenly pounding. Each morning is a lottery with my mother. Which version will I get today? The mother who knows me, whose eyes light up when I enter the room? Or the one who looks at me with polite confusion, treating me like a kind stranger in her home?

The dementia diagnosis shattered my world. On the days she looks wary of me, with no recognition in her eyes, it feelslike someone is twisting a knife in my heart. I understand the logic, the reasoning as to why she doesn’t recognize me, that this disease is causing her to forget, but the child within me, the heartbroken little girl, wants to weep when her own mother doesn’t recognize her.

Some days Mom is entirely herself—sharp, witty, remembering details from my childhood that even I have forgotten. Other days she drifts, lost in her own mind, sometimes decades in the past. The doctors call it a “fluctuating presentation,” but that clinical term doesn’t capture the pain of watching my mother disappear and reappear like a radio signal that can’t quite stay tuned.

I take a deep breath and step into the kitchen.

Mom stands at the stove, her silver-streaked black hair twisted into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. She’s wearing her favorite yellow apron, the one with tiny, embroidered daisies along the hem that I bought her with my babysitting money when I was fourteen. She always wears it, no matter how faded and worn out it has become over the years. She’s flipping what look like blueberry pancakes—my favorite since childhood.

“Good morning,” I say cautiously, my voice soft.

She turns, spatula in hand, and I hold my breath.

Please know me today. Please.

Her face breaks into a warm smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “There you are, Maya. I was wondering how long it would take for you to wake up.” She gestures toward the table with her spatula. “Sit down. These are almost ready.”

Relief floods through me so intensely that my knees feel weak. She knows who I am. I sink into a chair at our small kitchen table, watching as she expertly flips another pancake.

“You didn’t have to make breakfast, Mom,” I say, though secretly I’m grateful for this slice of normalcy.