Searching for My Mother, 16 Years After Her Murder | Literary Hub

The fear waits for me still, always worse when it is dark or cold. But it's the half hour of transition from day to night that's hardest, watching the light seep from the landscape, taking with it its illusion of safety. On the rare days when I'm here in winter, when dusk starts sliding over this valley at four o'clock or even earlier, I have to fight against panic. I turn away from the windows, stir my aunt's soup, sit with my silent uncle watching race cars hypnotically circle an endless oval track. Once it is truly dark out, I feel a bit better: there may be hours of nervousness to get through, but now I'm in them. I've been here before, and no matter how bad things get, some part of me always remembers that I'll come out the other side.