Chapter 2: The Words Only I Could See

When I was very little, I already knew my mom was the heroine and my dad was the hero. Even in our small Pennsylvania town, they were the couple everyone talked about at church potlucks and Little League games.

Because I could see the words floating above their heads. It was as if the universe had hung invisible banners right there in our living room, only I could see them.

I tugged on Nanny Linda’s hand, searching through books, piecing together the meaning of the words: above Mom’s head, it said ‘female lead’; above Dad’s, ‘male lead’. Nanny Linda was always patient, squinting at the page with me, letting my tiny fingers trace the words.

I asked Nanny Linda what ‘male lead’ and ‘female lead’ meant. Her kitchen always smelled like cinnamon rolls and strong diner coffee, the kind that clung to your clothes all day, and I remember asking her as sunlight poured in through the window.

Nanny Linda smiled and told me, “It’s like the prince and princess.” She ruffled my hair, her bracelets jangling like tiny wind chimes.

She picked up a copy of ‘Snow White’ and read the whole story to me. Her voice made the story come alive—her words slow and comforting, her voice warm as summer.

From then on, the prince and princess lived happily ever after. It seemed as certain as the sun coming up or the ice cream truck ringing down the street.

I thought that was a pretty good story. It felt safe, wrapped up with a bow, the way I wished every night could be.

My parents loved each other, our family was tight-knit—except for Grandma sometimes nagging about wanting another grandchild, there was nothing happier than our home. Our house was full of laughter, the smell of pancakes on weekends, even the sound of Grandma’s voice fussing over second helpings.

But life never goes as planned. Sometimes the music stops without warning.