Always, Anna E-Book

Hannah Conrad

• Herausgeber: Dimension Seal Studios
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Emily is drowning in memories. Yet those memories are also the only thing besides her daughter that are keeping her afloat. 

Emily had a person she loved that she couldn't be with. Now she's in an arranged marriage to a man she does not love. The memories of a girl from Poland that she fell in love with are something Emily cherishes as she struggles with raising her daughter and dealing with her failing marriage. She named her daughter Anna after that girl. After all, it doesn't matter if it's a mother's love for her daughter or a deep love for a woman she may never see again. The person Emily loves is always Anna.

Leseprobe

Always, Anna

Hannah Conrad

Published by Dimension Seal Studios, 2021.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

ALWAYS, ANNA

First edition. December 21, 2021.

Copyright © 2021 Hannah Conrad.

ISBN: 979-8201945619

Written by Hannah Conrad.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

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Also By Hannah Conrad

About the Author

About the Publisher

 

For Ash

Chapter One

I am at home on the couch. Nonchalantly watching a random reality TV show as my dog sits on my lap. He's a husky named Marshmallow (clearly this was not my decision). And he's easily too big to fit the entire length of himself on my lap. But it's a bit difficult to do anything about it when he still seems to think he can get away with being a lap dog. And, of course, today I get his rear end and obnoxious tail in my face instead of his head, which is resting on nothing less than the pillow. He's out cold—with the exception of the occasional twitching of the nose.

But despite this, I enjoy his presence, although I am much more of a cat person. And, even better yet, I am enjoying the quiet. It is something that I am rarely able to have around the house, but it seems as if, somehow, some way, something has finally aligned in my favor.

Suddenly, however, Marshmallow jumps up and begins to bark, very ungracefully using my lap as a spring board as he vaults himself through the air to fling himself at the very mysterious (and most likely invisible) threat that he thinks he has heard this time.

I am about to tell him to be quiet, but then remain silent. My six year old daughter has just flown into the room, her feet sliding to a halt on the wooden floorboards beneath us.

Marshmallow still causing a ruckus, Anna exclaims, "Mama I found your pearl necklace—and I wanted to try it on with my dress for the New Year's party!"

Inwardly, I sigh. She shouldn't be able to get away with these acts anymore. Yes, dress up is a fine game to play, but she shouldn't be going through my things without permission. It makes me wonder why she was even in my room to begin with. But the look of pure delight in her eyes as she twirls, her brown curls bouncing this way and that, is something I don't want to wreck.

Because, frankly, it reminds me of something.

Red hair.

And her shining green eyes.

Blue eyes.

I snap out of it instantaneously, and say, "Anna, you look beautiful. Maybe we'll think about getting you your very own in the next couple of years."

But I've said that before.

You look beautiful.

I know I have.

Now Anna's face lights up even more. The more excited she gets, the more and more I seem to remember again.

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RED HAIR.

Blue eyes.

Winter. Snow.

Polish. 

Chocolate?

Spinning.

Dancing, but I don't dance.

'You look beautiful.'

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IT IS ONLY ANNA'S VOICE that jolts me back to reality, "I'll be so pretty, maybe I'll even meet someone. He'll ask me to dance," she clasps her hands with delight.

What has happened to my parenting skills? She's too young to be thinking about such things. I play along anyway, but I've only succeeded, it seems, in coming halfway back to the present day. And it shows: "He will be a very lucky boy....or she will be a very lucky girl."

"What do you mean—she?" Anna wrinkles her nose.

At her words, I blink in shock. Had I really just said that? I could have sworn it was only a thought.

That's something she would have done.

Why are memories suddenly attacking me from every corner?

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BLUE EYES.

Wide.

'Did I say that out loud?'

'Yeah.'

A blush that matches the hue of red hair.

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FOCUS.

I need to focus.

Anna. My daughter. I need to explain myself now.

"Anna, why not? You can dance with anyone you want. Love anyone you want."

"You love Papa," she argues.

"Yes," I say.

"Papa is a boy."

"Yes."

"But you could love a girl?"

"Yes," I say, without hesitation.

"Then you don't love Papa?"

The words hang in the air for a moment. The seemingly most innocent of words, strung together so precisely, hit me like a slap in the face. Who was this life lesson for again?

"Oh, Anna, come here," I say, holding my arms out and enveloping her in a hug, "Of course I love your Papa. When....you're older you'll know what I mean."

But do I?

Red hair.

Do I even know what I mean?

Blue eyes.

I had been so certain that I had been able to conceal it all.

'Beautiful.'

But these memories...they're going to be the death of me. I know it.

I hold onto Anna for a few seconds longer than usual, although she doesn't seem to notice. While she is oblivious to it, her words make something snap inside of me. Something that I've worked long and hard to mend, to store away, to put back together without it falling apart again.

And it's been....okay, recently. I can't say good, because that wouldn't be the truth. But it's been okay.

And now....now it's not.

Because a little piece of it—and me—has just shattered.

And from the opening now leaks a small tear, which I need those few extra seconds to wipe away.

Chapter Two

It's been a year, and it's the middle of winter. And by the looks of this Wednesday morning's three inches of snow and counting, I highly doubt Anna is going to school today.

"Snow day! Snow day!" Anna cries repeatedly in an elated sing-song voice as she rushes downstairs.

I haven't even woken her up, yet here she comes, careening into the kitchen, Marshmallow tagging playfully at her heels, only stopping when she reaches the window. And I am just about to tell her that no one knows for sure if school is cancelled, when I get the alert on my phone—no school.

A snow day it will be.

I show her the message and she jumps up and down, causing our already wound-up husky to go the slightest bit more insane.

"Can I go outside and play?" Anna asks, already bounding towards the door. In nothing but her pajamas.

Guess she takes after me.

"Only after you eat. And change," I say.

I have never seen my daughter eat anything more quickly. And what impresses me the most is that she doesn't even wait for me to get anything for her; instead she flies to the pantry, grabs the only accessible box of cereal (meaning the frosted flakes on the third shelf, since she can reach no higher), stands on her toes to get herself a bowl, and then the cereal is barely in that bowl for a minute before it's finished.

"Now can I go?" she asks.

"Change first," I remind her, shaking my head.

She's so very enthusiastic...

And it reminds me.

Again...

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WONDER.

Awe.

Like that of a child, but plastered onto her face.

And she's no child.

But she acts like she is, quite a bit.

While it should really infuriate me sometimes, and annoy me others, it never fails to amuse me. 

Never...

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I SNAP OUT OF IT IMMEDIATELY. I can't let myself go there again. No. Not happening.

I am suddenly battling with my mind to see what is in front of me, and what my mind thinks I want to see.

What I want to see is not what I need to see.

And what I need to see...I need to see it now.

But thankfully, I don't have to fight with myself for long.

Because here comes Anna, running back into the kitchen, rushing to the closet to pull out her bright purple winter coat. And next are the boots, which I have to help her lace up. I make her wear her scarf and her hat and her gloves, although she protests slightly. Then I see her out the door; I am perfectly content to keep an eye on her from inside. We have a fence, and I send Marshmallow out with her, knowing that he'll be able to keep her company.

And I resent the fact that her father has insisted on going in to work today. He could have gone out there with her. He could have tried. Actually spent time with her. But he thinks that driving an hour to work in the snow is better than staying here. I know it. And a lot of the time, I couldn't agree more.

But I'm not allowed to think like this.

Neither is he, really.

But at this point, the unspoken messages are mutual; this arranged marriage was doomed to fail from the start. And the only reason I do it is for my daughter. She's the only reason this life is manageable.

The only reason I shut away everything that has ever made me happy.

And this is what frustrates me the most—my daughter makes me happy. She does. She really, truly does.

Watching her play and learn and grow is something that is beautiful; but it also reminds me of what I can never have.

I do this all the time—think too much.

She always used to tell me that.

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WE'RE SITTING IN CLASS. And I'm staring at this problem for what feels like an eternity, effectively doing a better job of twirling my pencil through the tip of my single blonde braid than I am of writing with it. 

It's calculus. 

I'm good at calculus.

But I can't solve the problem—and it frustrates me beyond belief.

'It's simple,' she says, lips curving into a smile as she shows me her answer, but refuses to show me how she got it, 'I can help you with it, if you want.'

Those are my words—the words I say to her whenever she can't solve the problem. 

She's teasing me.

Thoroughly enjoying the fact that, while I currently achieve much better grades than she does, she can solve this problem while I can't. 

And she brings a hand up to one of her two matching braids.

It's brief, but I catch it; she's unsure that she should be so openly mocking me. Although it's not intended to be mean, she feels as though she's challenging me; overstepping her bounds.

But I'm not mad. 

I don't think I could ever be mad at her.

Instead I play along and ask her for help—because, really, what else am I going to do, anyway? I'm a perfectionist. I need to get this answer.

And so she shows me—that I'm going about it all wrong. 

'You think too much,' she says, showing me her work, 'All you need to do is rearrange the equation. And once you do that, you can solve the problem.'

'Oh,' I feel slightly embarrassed. 

Because it is a simple problem.

Once I can see it differently.

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I WISH I COULD DO THAT with life.

Rearrange it.

Take out the places and memories and people I don't want, and replace them with those that I do want, all the while keeping what I like about now, stable.

But people will never be as simple as numbers. Because there's more to the equation.