“You were found in the morning by a runner,” she finishes, clearing her throat. “Thank God for them. I haven’t always been the best mother, and I’m trying to change that.” She sniffs, straightening up in her seat and buckling her seat belt. “We need to get better at comunication. I want you to know you can talk to me about anything.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, taking one of her hands in mine. The gesture seems to surprise her, but she squeezes it gently in return. “And I’m sorry. For everything I put you through.”

“I’m sorry too,” she says. “What you went through was horrifying, even if you don’t remember it all. But it might be a blessing if you never do.”

As she pulls out of the parking lot, I stew over what she just told me and what I witnessed in my session with Dr. Meyer, a headache pulsing in my temple. The vision at the end, in the forest, is extremely similar to what I first remembered about the accident. But it doesn’t make sense.

The story of that night is that I crashed into a tree and hit my head on the steering wheel, immediately losing consciousness. So why do I keep seeing myself in a forest, wandering around with bloody hands?

Blinking back tears, I wish for all of this to go away. I didn’t ask for any of it. But going back in time and reversing the accident and the amnesia means being in a timeline where I’m actively cheating on my boyfriend with my sister’s partner, constantly at odds with my mother, and thinking I’m better than everyone else when I might’ve actually been the worst of them all. That’s not a reality I’d prefer either.

Before I know it, we’re back at the house, pulling into the driveway.

“Sofia,” I say, once she shuts the car off. “Do we have any old photo albums?”

“I have some buried in a box somewhere.”

“Can I look at them?”

To my relief, she doesn’t press the issue, instead she simply nods as I follow her inside. I wait in the kitchen while she searches her bedroom, and minutes later she emerges with her arms full of worn albums then passes them off to me. After thanking her, I retreat up to my bedroom, sitting on the wooden floor and spreading them out in front of me. They all have different years and names scrawled on the side, and I select one with mine.

I flip over the cover, leafing through the pages slowly, looking at photos of me as a newborn in the hospital, cradled in Sofia’s arms while a pint-sized Audrey beams proudly at her new baby sister. I slide my thumb over the plastic cover.