and I'll feel my world crumbling
I'll feel my life crumbling
I'll feel my soul crumbling away
and falling away
falling away with you

She tightened her arms around her mother, heart pounding. She was shaking like she had when she was a child and for a moment, everything blurred and the memories fought each other.

— She was nine and shaking in her mother's arms. Her mother was sobbing, the sound distant, muffled by the ringing in her ears. She could smell blood and gunpowder.

— She was nine and shaking in her mother's arms. She could hear thunder and hail battering the window. Her mother pulled a fuzzy blanket tighter around her and she fell back asleep in her arms.

She knew which memory was real and pushed herself away from the warmth and comfort she'd missed for so long. The words caught in her throat. "I'm not your daughter. My mother died when I was fourteen years old."

— She was fourteen, and the sun was shining over the little group of mourners at the cemetery. It was a beautiful day, and she hated it. Rachel clutched at her hand and sobbed harder. Olivia wasn't crying. She felt numb and lost, methodically thinking ahead to packing her things and moving to Boston to live with their uncle.

— She was fourteen, and the sun was shining over the Seine, reflecting off the water. It was a beautiful day, and she thought it was perfect. Rachel was trying to ask directions in French, and their mother was laughing, correcting her gently. She felt excited and alive, eagerly thinking ahead to their plans for the rest of their first trip to Paris.

She clung to the pain of the memory, the painful truth. A part of her knew she wasn't arguing with the woman standing across the room from her. A part of her knew there wasn't any point of arguing. A part of her knew why she was there.

"If you've never been here, how did you know to come here?"

— They'd been looking at houses in New York for weeks, driving around a city she was becoming increasingly familiar with, increasingly fond of. She teased her mother that she was being too picky about the house so she could give up and go back to Florida. She knew, though, as soon as they pulled up in front of the house with the overgrown hedges. It was cozy and full of light, with the big kitchen that her mom had always wanted. She liked it, and weeks later with yellow paint smudged on her cheek, she looked around and felt like she was home.