The University of West London had the best MA program in photography in the world. There, I’d have a chance to work with Xander Chase, one of the youngest, most renowned photographers in the world. He’d even exhibited at Hamilton’s in London.

Some dreams aren’t meant to come true.

Maybe Easton was right. Maybe London was just a pipe dream.

Unless you went on your own.

As quickly as the betraying, insidious thought popped into my head, I shuddered and quashed it. Going on my own wasn’t an option. I’d once tried to interview for a job in Los Angeles right out of college. The bruises he’d left on my body had made it very clear that I wasn’t going anywhere without him.

I’d been with him since I was sixteen, and he’d come to my school to talk about the benefits of NYU as a college. Even then, everyone had pointed out how lucky I was that a college guy was interested in little ol’ me.

That a Peters was interested in me.

Then why don’t I feel lucky?

Nobody saw what I saw.

He could be sweet. He could be unfailingly kind. We could spend hours talking about nothing. Or debating the merits of superpowers. There were so many happy moments interspersed with the bad that sometimes I wondered if I imagined the bad times.

Like the times when I was afraid or made to feel worthless were phantoms that plagued my mind with lies. Problem was, like phantom limbs, those bad moments sent aches throughout my soul that set like permanent stains.

His sweet moments were like an analgesic that dulled the pain and made me forget it lurked just around a happy corner. His temper was always at the forefront of my mind. But still, despite the fear, there was a part of me that hoped. Hoped he could be different, that I could be.

My phone rang in the kitchen, pulling me out of my reverie. I raced to grab it, a smile tugging at my lips when I saw who it was on the caller ID. “Hey, Dad.”

“Abena, how are you?” My father’s baritone voice with its accented English never failed to calm me down.

“Oh, I’m good. Just making some lunch.” I stalled, wondering what he was calling about. Neither of us was particularly skilled at small talk. A call from him was not the norm. We always relayed messages through my mother or via text. Nevertheless, I was happy to hear from him. “What’s up, Dad?”

He expelled a breath, as if happy to be able to cut to the chase and forego the social niceties of asking what I was making for lunch.

“I need the valuation papers for the condo. I’m trying to up the insurance, given the renovation we just did to the bathroom.”