I stepped into my mother’s kitchen for the first time in centuries and was suddenly 6 years old eating the first pieces of toast I could remember. Crunchy and warm, soft in the middle with butter and sweet from the whipped honey, it was a taste that I would forever associate with Mom.

Sitting at the kitchen table, I laid my hands flat against the plastic tablecloth, my fingers tracing the patterns like I had done hundreds of times before. I could hear the whisper of my mother’s movements, the warm timbre of her voice.

Then I remembered the sound of a chair scraping back and a body thumping into it. I looked over to the chair that sat half away from the table. My sister had sat there, older, prettier, arrogant and selfish. She’d made my life a living hell and still I wanted her to love me.

My heart ached and I thought I heard bitter, ringing laughter. I was in no mood to tangle with her, my sister, my mirror, she who called herself Jenny Nowhere.

I got up from the table and walked out of my mother’s house.