The girl in the picture just blinked.


"That’s it. I have completely lost my mind," I yelled to myself. It was the last thing I needed to see.


It’s been years now since I moved from California, living out in the middle of nowhere. The closest neighbor is two miles off the main dirt road. This has to be an early sign—of something. Maybe it was bad food, the heat, or something in the water.


I turned back to the picture and watched it, maybe for hours, focused on just the eyes. I remember the day I first saw them—still glossy from the ointment the nurses used to protect newborn eyes. It had been so many years since I held a newborn in my arms. My son took that picture of us just after she was born.


I couldn’t believe it—I was now a grandma, packing up for a trip back west for grandbaby number two. I wasn’t sure if it was a boy or girl this time; they wanted to make it a surprise. I wasn’t expecting to see it blink again—really, I wasn’t expecting much of anything. Just as well, I began to turn away from the picture when I heard a small whisper:


“Just being two of each color, Ganny.”


I looked back. The little lips curled up into a smile and returned to normal.


I was gifted a new talent now—from the goddess, apparently. Great, if things weren’t weird enough for me already. I sighed and went back to packing, making a mental note to gather my sewing kit and pick up extra materials to make another baby blanket. I’d already made one in each color, so it wouldn’t be hard to adjust. Besides, I figured Astrik’s blanket must be getting too small for her by now.


Going back to California wasn’t something I was exactly thrilled about. I had begged the kids to move closer, but I knew it was better for them to stay where they were. My daughter-in-law wanted her mom to have time with the baby, and all her family was nearby.


I put my phone down and looked around, trying to get my bearings, but it didn’t help. My reality feels so twisted that it doesn’t matter what I want—it’s always going to be what someone else thinks I should be doing or where they think I should be going. I still doubt that my thoughts and feelings even belong to me.


It’s like I’m not living life—just stuck in a kind of hell I can’t escape from. I feel tears streaming down my face, but I don’t even know why I’m crying. I smell shit, and there’s nothing there. No matter how much I clean, it’s like—poof—more dishes, bigger messes.


I don’t have any pictures of my own on the walls, no stacks of fabric for blankets yet. The truth is, my first grandchild hasn’t even been born. We still don’t know the gender, and I honestly don’t care—just as long as the baby is healthy: ten fingers, ten toes, and everything in the right place.


I’m 50/50 on it. I picture a boy, but it turns out to be a girl. I think of a girl, and I see a boy. We’ll find out soon—sometime in the next twelve weeks or so, that is, if they choose to know. I kind of hope they do.


Still, the sadness sticks with me. As I write this, I just want to feel free—from a world I don’t belong in, in a time where I can’t even feel like myself anymore. It sounds lame, but I don’t even know how to talk to someone—or who I could talk to. Just to keep from ending up in some padded room or in a cell underground being poked and prodded like I’m some kind of freak.


I just want to get away from here, but I have nowhere to go. My family has always used me in one way or another, and when I have nothing left to give, they turn me away. My kids… God, I miss them. They're grown now: my oldest about to be a father, my middle son in the military and about to turn 21, and my youngest almost 18, planning to do the same.


It haunts me that I don’t even have a home for them to come back to if their lives fall apart.


If it weren’t for my last marriage ending—and all the other crazy bullshit—I don’t know where I’d even be living. Nothing makes sense anymore. And like I said at the start, I know this can’t all be in my head. I’m not that creative. No way I could make all this madness up. Besides, maybe one day I’ll have enough proof to avoid that padded room.


What scares me is the idea that it is all true—and if so, for how long has it been this way?


It can’t just be coincidence, the way things happen. But somehow it always seems to be. What is it about me—or whatever is around me—that makes it never-ending? Why won’t someone just tell me what’s going on?


Who do I ask? Who will believe me? Not just believe what I see—but what I hear and feel and witness?


And I swear—that picture on the wall, the one with the girl in it… yeah. She really did blink. And looked straight at me.


Maybe it was then that I realized: maybe it was me staring into a mirror, hoping for something different in life than where I am now—cleaning for my ex-husband just so I’m not living under a bridge. Room and board—that’s what I get paid. I don’t have a car. I barely have anything left after the divorce.


You’d think I’d have more by now. Most of what I have is packed in boxes: home décor, holiday stuff, the kids’ keepsakes, a few pictures, some books, some dishes. I try to keep my seasonal clothes separate so I don’t have to dig through bags just to find something to wear.


I don’t have much—but to others, it might seem like too much. Like, “Do you really need that?” Well, yeah. It’s mine.


I’m not becoming a hoarder or anything—but dammit, it’s all I really have.


I don’t even really have a friend right now.