Watching her sitting there, in the middle of a high school classroom, panicking over the fact that she had the right answer but just couldn’t, for the life of her, figure out how to articulate it, was like seeing her for the first time. It wasn’t just that I was seeing her when she was just a few years younger than me—or, at least, her mind’s eye of what she looked like as a high schooler—but it was also feeling every emotion that she did. It was pouring out of Dream Teen Mom like shockwaves, bowling me over with its strength.

I didn’t go about it the right way, but I did get rid of my mom’s nightmare. I replaced it with me shouting at her, but maybe … maybe I could do it right next time. And maybe letting out my feelings in the dreamworld is healthier than letting them bubble up inside me. Maybe I can help my family dream more peacefully and their dreams can help me in return. I think my mom is wrong—I think there is a point to these abilities. And I’m going to find out what it is.

NOVEMBER 16TH, 2016

The monster breathes. It steps forward out of the darkness, heavy footfalls rattling the black expanse.

It’s awake.

LATER

I can’t do this. I really, really cannot do this.

I was in the kitchen, going through all of our cookbooks with a notepad and pen in one hand and Post-its in the other, ready to tackle the choosing and strategizing portion of the Thanksgiving recipes. My mom encouraged me to invite Emily for Thanksgiving, seeing as her family is all the way in Arizona. I’m not sure if it’s a ploy to get me to spend more time with the family or to make up for the fight we had in her dream. She didn’t give any indication that she remembered the dream at all but I still … I worry. The next day, after I had gotten some distance from it, I realized how not great that was. Yes, I should be more honest with my family, but making their nightmares worse is probably not the best way to achieve that.

I had more or less lost myself in the intricacies of the pros and cons of different turkey brining methods when my dad came in. He moved silently around the kitchen for a moment before going to the fridge and pouring himself a glass of water, peering over the books I’d laid out on the counter as he went.

“Doing Thanksgiving prep already?” he asked and I nodded and gave a vague hum. My body had immediately tensed when he walked in, clenching even further when I saw him looking at what I was doing, bracing for a conversation I didn’t want to have.