Last night she hid in the coat closet, mind full of mothballs, and she wrote a book of letters to children who may never be born.
As her pen drug across the page, her thoughts crashed like the sea, rushing behind her eyes in salty swarms.
She wrote his name, sugary hot on her tongue, hoping someday to see his face, with the palpable future hanging heavy in her throat.
"Dear River William," she began, taking shelter in the name, "you may not be mine, and you're probably better off if that's the case.
You're probably better off, River, though I love you more than anything, wish I could pull some magic out of my hat, honey, wish I could make me good enough for you."
She was interrupted, as the door began to shake, and spiders ran like fear up the hair on her arms.
"Honey Anne!" he screamed, leaning heavily on the door so she could hear it groan and crack.
"Yes, Pa?" she crooned, hands sliding from sweat, shuffling to adjust herself amongst the piles of clothes, the damp wool overcoats and musty linens.
"Honey Anne, get out of the damned closet." She felt the back of her neck begin to crawl; maybe it was the cool air, maybe it was the damp, maybe it was the heat in his voice or the way the coats gently brushed her body whenever she moved.
She curled up from her sprawled position, and opened the door, just a sliver.