My Mom Introduced Me To Her Friend. A Week Later They Were Murdered.
How I navigated a debilitating fear of death as an eight-year-old
“She was murdered?” I hear my mom’s voice seeping out of the kitchen.
“Yes,” my dad’s voice, consoling.
“How?”
At eight years old, I am curious who they are talking about. Is it someone I know? I start to tip-toe out of my bedroom.
My parents must have heard me — their voices drop down to whispers.
“He hid in her closet. He attacked her while she was sleeping.”
I hear a gasp from my mother, a heavy footstep, probably my father’s.
“What is wrong?” I say, entering the room. My mom is turned away from me but I can see her head is in her hands. My dad’s hand is on her shoulder.
Quickly she turns around, “nothing,” she says with a fake smile.
But I wasn’t letting it go that easily, “Who died? Who was in the closet?”
My parents look at each other, clearly debating without words how much to tell me.
“Just someone your mother used to know,” my dad finally responds.
