Now it's three years later.

Anna's successfully gotten that pearl necklace she wanted from all those years ago. I know my daughter has a fairly good memory, but really? She picks that to remember, yet still struggles with multiplication times tables?

It's not that I'm really strict with her grades. It's not 'get an A or you're grounded'. But still, she could be doing better. And I make a mental note that it's something that I need to discuss with her sometime soon.

I mean, it's something that her father could discuss with her, too. But he's not around much, anymore. He spends way too much time out of the house—so much so that chauffeuring Anna to various extracurricular activities, to appointments, to friends' houses, and to school when she misses the bus, have all become responsibilities that have fallen to me.

And I work, too. For the same business. Our business.

He could at least try.

I hate him sometimes. I really do. And it wasn't always like that. We used to get along.

Then…it was manageable; just a thing. A thing that I could live with. Or that I thought I could live with…but it's not. It's just not anymore.

It's not okay.

I can't even talk about this thing that's supposed to be 'family.'

Family.

God, even that makes me remember.

'I know I talk a lot about my family,' she says to me, 'but you never talk about yours.'

We're sitting in her dorm room, while her roommate is out, watching a movie that I've seen a million times over.

But that's okay…because I'm not really paying attention to it anyway.

Neither is she, apparently.

'There's nothing really to say,' I tell her.

'Sure there is,' she says, 'What are your parents like? Do you have any brothers? Sisters?'

'I'm an only child,' I say. It's the one question I answer.

'Do…you not get along with your parents?'

All that I hear is the movie, but what I see before me has nothing to do with the words that echo in the background.

And I'm not looking at her, but I feel her eyes on me. She really wants to know.

But I don't know if I can do this.

Admit it.

She's waiting…

'They're strict,' I tell her, 'They control my life. And…they care about their business.'

'Oh,' she says, 'So they expect you to take it over?'

'Yes.'

I'm silent after that.

'But…'

'What?' I ask.

There's more to it, and she knows it.

I know it.

'But. There's more,' she says.

'Yes.'

'And?'

I can't just not tell her.

For some reason, I don't want to tell her.

But…I do.

'They want the business to stay in the family. And they're only going to have someone who they approve of become a part of it. So along with every other thing in my life that they've set up and arranged…they've decided who I'm spending the rest of my life with.'

I hope it comes out more sarcastic if I don't actually say 'arranged marriage'. Because I don't think I can say it seriously without feeling the need to cry.

Or punch whatever is closest to me.

And I can't hurt her like that.

God.

I think I've already hurt her.

Her face, and her shoulders…she does this thing where she looks like she really has been slapped.

But it's only for a brief moment.

And then she recovers and just simply says, 'Oh.'

But it sounds dejected.

Deflated.

And in the moment I can't even figure out why.

The dog is barking maniacally.

"Marshmallow! Be quiet!"

And then I laugh.

I laugh because it hurts.

And because of my life.

This life.

I can't even keep a straight face when I yell at my dog because of his name. Who tells marshmallows to shut up?

I think I've lost it.

But when he doesn't stop, that's when I realize.

It's three, and Anna's home. And the dog's good for something—he heard the bus.

I open the door, ready to put my misery aside and ask my daughter how her day was, when I see that she's in tears. Maybe it's parental instinct, but I have a feeling I already know the answer to my unspoken question.

What a sight we are.

Her pitiful display is everything that I feel.

But I can't feel; not like this. I won't allow it.

No more about me—I need to know what's wrong.

"Anna, what happened?" I ask, pulling her into a hug.

"Sophie and Claire," she whimpers, barely able to speak, "They told me they won't be friends with me anymore…" she sniffles here, before continuing, "...because I wanted to play football with the boys at recess."

Fifth grade girls; the prerequisites to dealing with middle school cliques and up.

Part of me wants to strangle my daughter's so called 'best friends'. Anna can play whatever sport she'd like. But any ideas of strangling are out of the question, clearly. And, knowing the nature of mean girls—it's not until they reach middle school that they turn on you and never look back. So by tomorrow, all will be well.

I can only hope.

Instead of relaying my internal monologue to my still-crying daughter, I tell her, "Anna, you can play whatever sport you want. Don't let them tell you what you can and can't do. I promise, it's going to get better."

I've been avoiding making promises. For a long time now. So I really hope that this is one that I can keep.

"But what if it doesn't?" Anna sobs again.

And then something snaps in me.

The crying.

Her tears.

"Annika," I say, "If it doesn't, then Sophie and Claire aren't worth your time."

Annika.

We're in my dorm room.

She's crying.

And she won't stop.

I knew it was bothering her. I knew it as soon as it happened.

And I still don't know what to do; how to comfort her.

I'm laying back on my pillows.

She's sitting at the foot of the bed.

And seeing her like this is killing me.

'I'm sorry,' I tell her, not knowing what else to say, 'We should have just gone to see a movie or something.'

And for the first time all night, she looks at me.

Actually looks at me.

'Don't blame yourself. I had a great time. The mall was amazing. I just…I miss home, that's all.'

There's a pause.

'Don't let them get to you, okay?' I say.

She knows exactly what I'm talking about.

And she can't deny it, even though I know she wants to.

'You're right. I'm in college. I'm nineteen. I shouldn't be acting like this. Shouldn't let a jerk group of teenage boys make me cry.'

I instantly grow bitter, my back rigid as I sit up, eyes narrowing slightly; an almost defensive position, 'They were more than jerks. They were freaking a—'

'Hey,' she says; a light warning.

I know she doesn't like it when I curse, and I've been trying really hard not to ever since she told me that. But the way those boys acted…knowing that she's like this because of them…it makes me want to destroy each and every one of them, slowly and painfully.

'Okay. So they were jerks,' I say resignedly.

But even though she's still upset, she keeps on talking, knowing that I'm concerned even though I don't quite know how to show it.

'I just feel like…everything here is so different. Being an exchange student…it's harder than I ever thought it would be. I miss Poland. I miss my family. I need to learn a whole new way of living. And I feel out of place. I feel different. I feel like people see me differently. And treat me differently. Because they don't understand,' she can't even look at me.

'Annika…' I start.

Then I stop.

She turns her blue eyes to me again, 'No one calls me that here.'

'Well,' I fumble for an excuse. I actually hadn't meant to say it, but…I kind of like the way it sounds. And so that's what I say, 'I like it. And…you're not out of place, okay?'

'I am.'

'Not here,' I tell her, and my words are more forceful. Because I need her to understand this. I need her to understand how much I care, 'You are not out of place here. I'm here for you. And I don't care that other people are judgmental…jerks. I don't care that people expect you to change. Because you shouldn't have to change. You're who you are. And you're…' I stop again.

'What?'

There are a million things I could say.

Could.

Don't.

'You're strong. You can get past this. And I'm here for you. I promise.'

She's silent for a moment, 'Do you really like my name?'

Her question catches me off guard, 'Yeah. Why wouldn't I?'

She shrugs, 'Sometimes I don't think it describes me very well.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

''Annika' means grace. I'm a klutz,' she says simply.

I don't like that she thinks like this, but I don't know how to tell her otherwise. Because even I have to admit, she was kind of clumsy today.

But…grace.

It's interesting.

I never would have guessed that's what it meant, and I ask, 'So then 'Annika' is Polish, right?'

When it comes out of my mouth, I realize how stupid I sound.

She's Polish.

Of course her name is freaking Polish.

But she just looks at me with this expression I can't quite put my finger on and says, 'Well, really, it isn't completely Polish. The name itself actually has Swedish and Dutch roots. My mother was from Sweden, and she met my dad in Poland, so that's where mine came from.'

'So you're Polish and Swedish,' I muse aloud, 'What does that make you then? If you put both of the words together, you still really end up with either Polish…or Swedish.'

She ponders this for a moment, but eventually says with a laugh, 'I don't know.'

And I'm glad she seems to lighten up…

But of course, just when it's all starting to look better, we run out of things to talk about.

Things to distract her.

And she sighs once more, 'This still doesn't change the fact that other people think I'm weird.'

She's still upset. And although her eyes are dry, they're still puffy from crying.

I miss the way they light up.

The way they just seem to sparkle when she's happy.

And before I know what I'm doing, I'm holding out my arms.

And she doesn't even hesitate.

Now we're completely tangled together, and her head is on my shoulder, and she's warm.

She's really, really warm.

And…

I like it.

My arms are wrapped around her.

We're so close that I can feel her heart beating.

And I want her to know she's safe.

That I'll protect her.

That she's going to be fine.

And I don't know what has gotten into me, but I act on impulse.

I move my head, ever so slightly.

I press a kiss to the top of her red hair.

And I tell her.

'I'm here. Everything's going to be okay.'

Well.

That one hurts.

A lot.

"'Annika'?"

My daughter's confused voice floats through the room.

"Uh…" I seem to be at a loss for words, "Well, let's just say…it's the Polish version of your name. Or…Swedish?"

I don't know exactly how to explain it.

Because now it's all the same to me.

Polish.

Swedish.

Annika.

"We're not Swedish. Or Polish," Anna points out, "So how do you know that?"

I don't know what to tell her.

So I tell her the truth, "An old friend told me that. And that was how I addressed her. When she was upset."

"She was upset?"

"Very," I say.

"And you wanted to make her feel better, too," Anna says.

"Yes, I did."

"So then you cared about her. Like you care about me," Anna says.

This trip down memory lane is suddenly starting to take its toll, and I don't want to say much more. But Anna's just begun to stop worrying about her own problems, so I need to shift the topic as cautiously as possible, so as not to resurface any more of her tears. And I chose my words very carefully, "Let's just say…she was my Annika before you came along. She was a very, very good friend."

And then I put up a barricade. Against the thoughts.

Because these memories…they're leaking again, and they hurt enough finding their way into my head.

Next thing I know they'll be pouring from my mouth; my words.

And I can't have that.

I can't.

A/n: So more of the backstory….little bits and pieces here and there. I'm beginning to think that, so far, her memories are my favorite part of this whole story, and I really can't wait until I can start tying them all together.

Thanks for reading!