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Chapter Eight

D r. 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 feels like 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.

“I wanted to. I feel like it’s been a long time since we had breakfast together.” She slides a perfect, golden pancake onto a growing stack. “Besides, after all that fresh air last night, I figured you’d be hungry.”

“So, it wasn’t a dream?” I mumble to myself.

I’m about to innocently ask her what she means when she continues. “Coffee’s ready. Help yourself.”

I get up and pour myself a cup from the pot, inhaling the rich aroma. Mom’s coffee is always perfect: strong but not bitter, with just the right amount of boldness. As I add a splash of cream, I notice she has only set out one cup.

“Aren’t you having any?” I ask, settling back into my chair.

She brings over the plate of pancakes and sets them in front of me. “I had tea earlier with your young man.”

The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim of my cup as I hear this. “My young what now?”

She turns back to the counter, retrieving the syrup and placing it beside my plate. “That nice young man who was out there with you most of the night.”

My face heats up. So, Griffin was real. He was here, slept with me under the stars, and apparently, had tea with my mother.

I’m not ready for this conversation, not when my own memories of last night are still foggy. I stand abruptly, needing a moment to process, and find myself pulling my mother into a tight hug from behind before I even realize what I’m doing.

She stiffens in surprise for just a moment before melting into the embrace, her hands coming up to cover mine where they’re clasped around her middle.

“I missed you, Mom,” I whisper, my voice thick with sudden, unexpected emotion. “So much.”

She squeezes my hands. “I missed you, too.” Her voice wavers slightly. “Even when I didn’t remem—Even on the bad days, some part of me always missed you.”

This rare, precious acknowledgment of her condition makes my throat tighten.

I press my face between her shoulder blades, breathing in the familiar scent of her lavender perfume and the faint undertone of vanilla that seems to follow her everywhere.

For a moment, we’re suspended in time—mother and daughter, holding on to each other against the current of an illness that threatens to sweep everything away.

“Now,” she says finally, patting my hands and reclaiming her practical tone, though I can hear the lingering emotion. “These pancakes are getting cold. Let’s eat together, and you can tell me all about this trip you’ve been on.”

I reluctantly release her and wipe quickly at my eyes before returning to my seat. Cutting into the stack of pancakes, I try to figure out how to navigate this conversation. The first bite melts in my mouth. Perfect as always, the blueberries bursting with sweetness.

I quickly change the topic from the trip before she can ask anything specific. “So,” I begin, deciding to simply dive in. “You met Griffin.”

“Is that his name?” She doesn’t turn around. “He didn’t say. Very polite, though. Helped me bring in more firewood for the hearth before he left. Said he didn’t want us to be cold.”

I take another bite of pancake, chewing slowly. “What...uh, what else did he say?”

Now she turns, drying her hands on a dish towel, a knowing look in her eyes. “Not much about himself. Mostly asked about you. Wanted to know what you were like growing up. I showed him a few of your baby pictures.”

I nearly choke on my coffee. “Mom!”

“What? It’s endearing.” She hangs the towel on its hook and leans against the counter, studying me. “He carried you inside, you know. Just as the sun was coming up. So gentle, like he was afraid you might break. Took off your shoes, tucked you in.”

The image of Griffin carrying me to bed, pulling the covers over me...I push my plate away slightly, my appetite suddenly compromised by the flutter in my stomach.

“I approve of this one,” Mom says, her tone casual but her eyes sharp, missing none of my reaction.

“There’s nothing to approve of,” I protest, feeling like a teenager again. “We’re not—There’s nothing going on between us.”

“Hmm.” She makes a noncommittal sound that speaks volumes. “Doesn’t seem that way to me.”

“He’s just—” I struggle to find the right words. “There’s nothing going on.”

“He certainly seems to like you.”

“He’s not my type,” I say too quickly.

Mom raises an eyebrow. “Your type? I see. So, you’re going to break his heart, then?”

“Mom!”

“I’m just saying,” she continues, undeterred, “for the first time, you’ve finally brought home a man who suits you.”

“I didn’t ‘bring him home,’” I protest. “He—He lives in the palace. He’s the king, Mom. He and I are not—He’s not interested in me, nor am I in him.” My voice trails off at the last part, and I wish I could sound more convincing.

“He stayed,” she adds pointedly, sitting down across from me. “To look after you. When was the last time anyone did that?”

I open my mouth to argue then close it again. She’s right, and we both know it. I have always chosen men who are not very confident, a bit shy and introverted. I was always able to control those relationships. I felt more secure in them.

But Griffin is different. He acts calm and is soft-spoken toward me, but he’s not meek, and he’s definitely not someone who will let me hold the reins in a relationship.

“He was just being nice,” I say finally, but the argument sounds weak even to my own ears.

Mom reaches over the table and takes my hand. “Maya, look at me.”

I do, reluctantly.