Alice's chest heaved with shallow, rapid breaths. She slammed the front door behind her and strode through the hallway, wobbling unsteadily. With her phone held against her ear with her shoulder, she stopped by the shoe rack to yank off her broken-heeled shoe. Another bit of chaos to thank her sister for.

She paused long enough to stare at herself in the mirror. Her emerald eyes widened in horror. Rarely did she allow herself to look so frazzled. So unkempt. Strands of her blonde hair were escaping her usually perfect tightly twisted bun. Her lipstick had faded, leaving her peach lip-liner as a frame, and her foundation clung to the dry patches of her pale skin.

Gone was her usually pristine appearance. This caused her heart to beat faster, the panic to accelerate.

Breathe, Alice, just breathe, she reminded herself. She quickly ran a hand over the flyaway strays, pressing down on the strands to lie flat. She wiped away the lipliner with a wet finger, pursed her lips, smoothed down her suit jacket, and cleared her throat. It was just a slip in her composure, that was all.

Finally, someone answered and Alice turned her back on the mirror. Back to business.

"Hello, this is the police station. How can I help you?"

Alice winced as she recognized the familiar accented voice on the phone. "Hey, Yao, Alice back here again. Saoirse's gone off with the car,"–she paused–"...again."

There was a sigh at the other end of the phone. "How long ago, Alice?"

Alice sat down on the bench and crossed her legs, settling down for the usual round of questioning. She closed her eyes, meaning to rest only for a moment, but at the relief of blocking everything out, she kept them closed. "Just five minutes ago."

"Right. Did she say where she was going?"

"The moon," she replied matter-of-factly.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. She said she was going to the moon," Alice said firmly. "Apparently the people will understand her there."

"The moon," Yao repeated blandly.

"Yes," Alice confirmed, feeling irritated. "You could perhaps start looking for her on the Main Road. I would imagine if you were heading to the moon that would be the quickest way there, wouldn't you? Although I'm not entirely sure which exit she would take. Either way, I'd check the Main–"

"Relax, Alice. You know I have to ask."

"Right, sorry." Alice tried to calm herself down again. She was missing an important meeting right now. Peter's temporary babysitter had fled the scene. Alice could hardly blame the girl. Her nephew's mother, her younger sister, Saoirse was unmanageable and the frantic young babysitter had called Alice in a panic. Alice had to drop everything and come home right away to deal with the situation.

Tino, Peter's nanny, had left for the three months of traveling with his husband that he had threatened Alice with for the past six years. However, she was still surprised that Tino, besides the current trip to Finland, was still turning up for work every day. Six years he had been helping Alice raise Peter, six years of drama, and still, after all his years of loyalty, Alice continued to expect a phone call or letter of resignation any time, any day. Being Peter's nanny came with a lot of baggage.

Then again, so did being Peter's adoptive parent.

"Alice, are you still there?"

"Yes." Her eyes shot open. She was losing track of the current conversation. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"I asked you what car she took."

Alice rolled her eyes and made a face at the phone. "The same one, Yao. The same bloody car as last week, and the week before and the week before that," she snapped.

Yao remained firm. "Which is the–?"

"BMW," she interrupted, "The same damn 330 black BMW Cabriolet. Four wheels, two doors, one steering wheel, two side mirrors, lights, and–"

"A partridge in a pear tree," Yao cut in. "What condition was she in?"

"Very shiny. I'd just washed her," Alice replied cheekily.

"Great, and what condition was Saoirse in?"

"The usual one."

"Intoxicated."

"That's the one." Alice stood up and walked down the hall to the kitchen. Her safe haven. Her one heel thumped against the polished oak wood floor. The room was pleasantly warm from the sun's rays through the glass windows. Alice's tired eyes squinted in the brightness.

Everything was in its place. The spotless kitchen gleamed, the black granite countertops sparkled, the chrome trimmings mirrored the bright day. A stainless steel and walnut escape. She headed straight for the kettle. Her savior.

In desperate need of a soothing cup of tea, she opened the kitchen cabinet and took out a single tea bag, along with a simple white teacup. Before heating the kettle, she made sure the handle was facing right just like her cup for easy access. She slid open the long cutlery drawer, noticed a fork in the knife aisle, placed it back in its rightful place, selected a spoon and slid it shut.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a hand towel messily strewn across the counter near the sink. She threw the dirtied cloth into a basket, retrieved a fresh one from the neat pile on the shelf, folded it exactly in half, and placed it neatly on the side. Everything had its place.

To pass the time, she took out another cloth to wipe down the surface of the already sparkling counter. Exactly eight minutes later, the kettle whistled. Pouring herself a cup, she gently set it down on a marble coaster to protect the glass kitchen table.

She smoothed out her trousers, picked off a piece of fluff from her jacket, sat down on a chair, and looked out to the view of rolling green hills beyond that seemed to stretch on forever. Forty shades of green, gold, and brown.

She breathed in the soothing scent of her Earl Grey tea and immediately felt revived. She imagined her sister racing over the hills with the top down in Alice's convertible, arms in the air, eyes closed, flame-red hair blowing in the wind, believing she was free.

Saoirse meant freedom in Irish. The name had been chosen by their mother in a last desperate attempt to make the duties of motherhood she despised so much seem less like a punishment. She hoped by naming her this, her second daughter could somehow bring her freedom from the shackles of marriage, motherhood, responsibility, reality.

Alice's and Saoirse's mother, Daisy, had met their father when she was just sixteen. She was traveling through town with a group of poets, musicians, and dreamers and struck up a conversation with Alistair Kirkland, a farmer in a local pub. He had twelve years on her age and was fascinated by her wild, mysterious ways and carefree nature. She was flattered. And so they married.

At eighteen, she had their first child, Alice.

As it turned out, her mother couldn't be tamed and found it frustrating being held in a sleepy town nestled in rolling hills that she had only intended to pass through. A crying baby and sleepless nights only drove her further and further away in her mind.

Dreams of her own personal freedom became confused with her reality—she started to go missing for days at a time. She went adventuring, discovering other places and people.

For as long as Alice could remember, she looked after herself and her silent, brooding father and didn't ask when her mother would be home. She knew in her heart that her mother would eventually return, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, speaking breathlessly of the world and all it had to offer. She would waft into their lives like a fresh summer breeze bringing excitement and hope.

The feel of their drab farmhouse always changed when she returned. Everything seemed to welcome her home with wide, open arms. The walls stood taller, the flowers bloomed brighter, and the wind danced with the leaves in joy.

Alice would sit at the end of her mother's bed, listening to stories, giddy with delight. Although this peace would only last for a few days until her mother quickly tired of sharing stories instead of making new ones, Alice savored the time spent with her mother.

She would often bring back gifts, such as stones, shells, and seeds. Alice could remember the time her mother brought back a tall vase of even taller grass, set on the table as the most exotic plant she had ever seen. When asked about the field they came from, her mother simply tipped her head and winked, whispering that fairies lived inside as their home.

Of course, Alice believed her, wide-eyed and innocent. Her father would silently in his chair by the fireplace, reading his paper but never turning a page as he too got lost in his wife's world of words. Her stories were all they had of her.

When Alice was twelve-years-old, her mother became pregnant again. Despite naming the child Saoirse, she didn't offer the freedom her mother craved, so she set off on another expedition. And didn't return.

Her father, Alistair, had no interest in the new baby and waited in silence for his wife to return. Reading his paper and never turning the page. For years. Forever.

Eventually, Alice's heart grew tired of awaiting her mother's return, and as a result, Saoirse became Alice's responsibility.

Saoirse had inherited their father's Celtic looks of strawberry blonde hair and lightly tanned skin, while Alice was the image of her mother. Fair skin, wheat-colored hair, and brilliant green eyes. As she grew up, Alice resembled her mother more and more, and she knew her father found it difficult to look at her. She grew to hate herself for it, along with making the effort of trying to have conversations with her father, she tried even harder to prove to herself and her father that she was nothing like her mother. That she was capable of loyalty.

When Alice finished school at eighteen, she was faced with the decision of moving to Cork to attend university—a decision that took all her bravery to make. Her father regarded her actions as abandonment; he saw any friendship she made as abandonment. He craved attention, always demanding to be the central figure of his daughter's lives, as though that would prevent them from leaving him.

Even so, he almost succeeded, and that was certainly part of the reason why Alice had no social life, no friends. She had learned to walk away whenever a conversation began, knowing that spending any unnecessary time spent away from the farm would earn her nothing but sullen words and disapproving glares. Alistair accused her of being like her mother, of thinking she was above him and superior to their humble home.

She understood what her mother must have felt, living in a suffocating home, where she felt bored and trapped by marriage and motherhood. Like her mother, she thought the small town was claustrophobic. It was a place where every action of every person was observed, frowned upon, commented on, kept and stored for gossip. An area that managed to attract tourists, but repelled Kirkland women.

Alice felt that the dull farmhouse she once lived in was dipped in darkness, with no sense of time. Even the grandfather clock in the hallway seemed to be waiting for her mother.

"And, Peter, where is he?" asked Yao, swiftly dragging Alice back into the present.

Alice replied bitterly, "Do you really think that Saoirse would really take him with her?"

Silence.

She sighed. "He's here."

Saoirse was more than just a name for Alice's sister. To her sister, it was her identity, her way of life. Everything her name represented was rooted in her bare bones. She was fiery, wild, independent and free. Saoirse instinctively followed the path of a mother who she could not remember, to a point that Alice found herself watching Saoirse to keep her from disappearing like their mother.

But Alice kept losing sight of her sister. At sixteen Saoirse became pregnant, and nobody knew who the father was, not even Saoirse herself. Once she had the baby she didn't care much about naming him but, when pressed, she gave her son a name that seemed absentmindedly affectionate.

Pretty.

So Alice named him Peter. And once again, Alice found herself responsible for a child that wasn't her own. Saoirse never seemed to recognize her son when she looked at him. It surprised Alice to see that there was no connection, no bond at all. Then again, Alice had made a pact with herself to never have children. She had raised herself and her sister; she had no desire to raise anybody else. It was time to look after herself.

After having slaved away at school and college, she had been successful in starting up her own interior design business. She had reached her goals by staying in control, maintaining order, not losing sight of herself, always being realistic, believing in fact and not dreams, and above all, applying herself and working hard. Her mother's and sister's example had taught her that she wouldn't get anywhere chasing childish dreams.

Despite that pact with herself, there was no one else in the family capable of raising a child, so Alice found herself living alone with a 6-year-old in a house she had made her sanctuary, the place she could retreat to and feel safe.

Alone because love was one of those feelings that you could never have control over. And she needed to be in control. She had loved before, had been loved, had tasted what it was to dream, and had felt what it was to dance in air. She had also learned what it was to cruelly fall back on earth with a thud. Having to take care of her sister's son had sent her love away, and there had been no one since.

She had learned not to lose control of her feelings again.

The front door banged shut and Alice heard the loud pattering of small feet running through the hallway.

"Peter!" She called, placing a hand over the speaker.

"Yeah?" he answered questioningly, blue eyes and blond hair topped with a blue sailor hat appearing from around the doorway.

"Yes, not yeah," Alice corrected him sternly. Her voice was full of the authority that she had perfected over the years.

"Yes," he repeated tiredly.

"What are you doing?"

Peter stepped out of the hall into the kitchen and Alice's eyes immediately narrowed in his grass-stained knees. She was going to have a difficult time getting those out. Again.

"Me and Alfred are just going to play on my Xbox," he informed her.

"Alfred and I," she corrected him and continued listening to Yao on the other end of the phone, arranging a search party. Peter watched his aunt for a moment before heading straight for the playroom.

"Hold on a moment!" Alice shouted into her phone, her mind finally understanding what Peter told her. She jumped up from her chair, bumping her leg into the table leg, spilling her tea across the glass. She swore. The wooden legs of the chair scraped against the carpet. Holding her phone against her chest, she raced down the long hallway to the playroom. Poking her head around the corner, she saw Peter sitting on the floor, eyes glued to the television screen.

Here and his room were the only areas within the house she permitted him to have his toys. She couldn't stand to have them anywhere else. Visiting many of Peter's friend's houses, picking him up or dropping him off, they were so full of toys laying around, just waiting for the opportunity to trip someone. She reluctantly had cups of coffee with the mothers while sitting on stuffed animals, surrounded by bottles, formulas, and yes, even more toys.

But not in her home. Tino had been told the rules at the beginning of their working relationship, and he had followed them. As Peter grew up and learned Alice's policies, he listened to her rules as well and kept his playing to the one room she had for that purpose.

"Peter, who's Alfred?" Alice asked, frantic emerald eyes sweeping around the room. "You know that you can't bring strangers home," she said, worried.

"He's my new friend," he responded, intent on the beefed-up wrestler body-slamming his opponent on the screen.

"You know that I insist on meeting your friends first before they can come over. Where is he?" She questioned, walking in. She hoped to God that this friend would be better than the last little terror, who had decided to draw his family on her wall in magic marker, which had long since been painted over.

"Over there," Peter nodded his head over by the window, still absorbed by the game. She went to open it, allowing the breeze to enter and looked outside at the garden, crossing her arms. "Is he hiding?"

He pressed a button on his controller to pause the game and finally looked away from the wrestlers. His face frowned in confusion. "He's right there!" He pointed at the beanbag by Alice's feet.

Her eyes widened as she stared down at the beanbag. "Where?"

"Right there," Peter repeated. Alice blinked back at him. She raised her arms questioningly.

"He's right next to you, on the beanbag." Her nephew's voice grew louder with his irritation. He continued to watch the beanbag, as if willing his friend into existence. Alice followed his gaze, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

"See him?" He dropped the remote and got up quickly to his feet.

This was followed by a tense silence. Alice could feel Peter's hatred of her, could tell what he was thinking: Why couldn't she see him, why couldn't she ever play along, why couldn't she just pretend?

She swallowed a lump in her throat and looked around the room once more to see if she really had missed his friend somehow. Nothing.

Alice leaned down to be on the same level as Peter, her knees audibly creaking in the silent room. "There's no one else but you and me in this room," she whispered softly. Somehow saying it quietly made it easier. For herself or for nephew, she didn't know.

Peter's cheeks flushed and his chest heaved with the angry breaths he took. He stood in the center of the room, surrounded by toys and video games, with his trembling little hands by his sides, looking helpless. Alice's heart hammered uneasily. Please do not be like your mother, please do not be like your mother. She knew only too well how a world of fantasy could steal you away.

Finally, Peter exploded. "Alfred, say something to her!"

Only silence that answered him as far as Alice could hear, and yet as her nephew stared into empty space, he began to giggle hysterically. He looked back at Alice, his smile fading as he noticed her blank reaction.

"Do you not see him?" he squealed nervously, then more angrily repeated, "Why don't you see him?"

"Alright, okay!" Alice tried not to panic. She stood back to her own level. A level she had control over. She couldn't see him and her mind refused to allow her to pretend. She wanted to leave the room quickly.

She lifted her foot to step over the beanbag–and stopped herself, choosing instead to walk around it. Once at the door, she glanced around the room one last time to see if she could spot the mystery Alfred. No sign at all.

Peter shrugged, sat down, and resumed his wrestling game. Alice didn't want him to sulk for the rest of the evening, so she offered tentatively, "I'll start heating up some pizza."

Silence.

What else should she say? It was at moments like these did she realize that reading all those parenting books never helped. Good parenting came instinctively from the heart, and not for the first time she worried she was letting Peter down.

"It will be ready in twenty minutes," she finished awkwardly.

"What?" Peter pressed pause again and faced the window.

"I said it will be ready in twen–"

"No, not you," Peter said, returning back to his world of video games. "Alfred wants some too. He said pizza is his favorite."

"Oh." Alice swallowed helplessly.

"With pineapple."

"But Peter," she blinked in confusion, "You hate pineapple."

"Yeah, but Alfred loves pineapples. He says they're his favorite."

"Oh . . ."

"Thanks," he said to his aunt, twisting around to grin and give a thumbs up to the beanbag before turning back to the screen. Alice slowly backed out of the room. She realized that she was still holding her phone to her chest and quickly brought it back up to her ear.

"Yao, are you still there?" She bit her lip as she stared at the playroom door, wondering what to do.

"I thought you'd gone off to the moon as well," Yao chuckled, "But anyways, you were right. Saoirse was on her way to the moon, but luckily decided to make a stop on the way there. Your car was found blocking the Main street with the engine still running and the door wide open. You're lucky that Ludwig found it before someone else."

"Let me guess, the car was outside the pub." Alice already knew the answer.

"Correct. Do you want to press charges?"

She sighed. "No. Thanks, Yao."

"Not a problem. We'll have someone bring the car back to you."

"What about Saoirse?" Alice returned to pacing the hall. "Where is she?"

"We'll be keeping her right here for now."

She offered quickly, "I can come and get her now-"

"No," Yao said firmly. "Let me come back to you on that. She needs to calm down before she can go anywhere."

Inside the playroom, she heard Peter talking and laughing away to himself.

"Actually," Alice added with a weak smile, "While you're at it, could you tell whoever's bringing the car to bring a shrink with them? It seems that Peter's imagining friends now..."

Inside the playroom, Alfred rolled his eyes and wiggled his body to fit more comfortably into the beanbag. He had heard her on the phone. Ever since he had started this job, parents have been calling him that and it was really starting to bug him. There was nothing imaginary about him.

They just couldn't see him.