Annika had been angry for days, maybe even weeks, I’ve lost count.  She had just lost her dad in a freak accident while he was travelling for work. She never got to see him, his body that is, and never got to say goodbye.  The news was told and that was it, no funeral, no burial. He was a good man, a loving man, a great provider, but far from a fantastic father as he was never really around. Then again, he didn’t really need to be, Annika apologized for him.

She was alone, again.

Her mom had passed away when she was little, or so she was told.  She never knew her so she couldn’t really miss her.  But she did grow up believing that something so bad couldn’t happen to the same family twice.  She believed that because her father told her so.  So at three years old she bravely stood by her mom’s empty tomb, secretly wishing her mom would suddenly appear but at the same time afraid that she actually would.

She was shielded from the pain her mother had gone through but she knew something was wrong nevertheless.  As the disease progressed and her mom had grown so frail so as not to be able to even lift herself out of bed, Annika was shipped off to her relatives in the States.  Whether this was the right move or not, no one really knows.  Annika cried for days in America, never having felt more alone, more scared, more uncertain of her future.  So at five years old Annika already thought that it was normal to suddenly be sped away to stay with strangers. “Just be real quiet, and you’ll be ok,” she told herself everyday when people would prod her and ask her questions, cajole her into joining games she was not interested in or force her to participate in family events.  After a few months, she only had to whisper the words at night.

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