The Good Mother
There are 25 steps between the front door and the mailbox. And if Amelia can make it under 20, she feels a sense of accomplishment, a strange adrenaline rush running through her body. As if she is in absolute control, invincible, the magic number a pathway to safety. That’s why Amelia counts everything: 5 steps from her bedroom to her daughter’s, 10 from her daughter’s room to the bathroom, 13 from the back of the house to the street and 25 from the front door to that damn mailbox. Today the mailbox is full. No regular mail or bills, just full of crap: pamphlets, useless junk papers and every other ad in the book. They all fall at her feet as she tries to grab the useless stack of papers stuck in the mailbox. Merde! Amelia bends over, picking up the papers one by one, but it’s only when she reaches a white envelope that her heart stops. Her name is handwritten and there is no return address. It could be anyone. Except Amelia already knows. The name in front of the envelope says Amelia Janvier, and there is only one person, ten years later, who would still call her by her maiden name. It takes another few extra seconds before Amelia realizes she has stopped breathing. On her way back, Amelia makes it home in 31 steps. That’s when she knows she’s in trouble and has no control over anything. The truth cuts like a knife: she probably never did.
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