“It’s all your fault!” he shouted, pointing a finger accusingly at me. What could a seven year old know? I understood nothing of what he was saying, but the words did sting considerably.

I only knew that mom was gone, and dad’s behavior had changed. He trembled, and turned on me, dark eyes glistening with tears and face twisted with anger.

“If she hadn’t gone to retrieve your ball, she’d be still alive!” he continued.

Tears of my own streamed down my face, and I hiccuped in desperation.

“You ruined our lives!”

I bolted upright, yet again, as if I had been given an electrical shock. A headache was pulsing through my temples, and my grip was vice-like upon the bed sheets.

I always have that dream when I’m stressed. It’s the same thing over and over. I don’t seem to have any good dreams. The doctors say it’s part of a repressed memory.

I sat back down, laying my nearly – soaked head back on the pillow.

I’m wondering if I’ll ever get that chunk of my life back.

I’m also wandering if I want to.