I could see them in my mind’s eye, running around in the garden, two naked little muffins chasing the butterflies and digging in the dirt with their tiny muffin hands. Two muffins made of chocolate that looked just like Oliver or two muffins made of cherries that looked just like me. Or maybe one of each or a single muffin that had both ingredients, mixed like a chocolate dipped cherry.

I wondered if it could be done. I mean, make a real muffin somehow using chocolate dipped cherries. Maybe I’d try it.

Right then I knew I had to pull my wits about me. I was going mental. I was allowing too many muffins to be dancing in my head. The answer was obvious. I’d simply ask Oliver for a dog. It wouldn’t be the same as a muffin. It would be more like a chip, but it would be something I could mother. And, oh, I had this desperate need to mother something.

Something was happening to me for sure, but I was not at all aware of it. I just felt different. I felt like something inside of me was changing and I was sort of floating away. I was thinking about things I never thought about before, things aside from muffins. Like my mother.

She had been dead for nearly nineteen years. I hardly remembered her and I hardly thought about her. Why? She had been my mother! She must have been important to me. I must have known her, needed her. Certainly I loved her. Didn't I? I put that thought straight out of my head. I had to have! All children love their mothers! I shouldn't have been any different! Then why couldn't I remember her?

My father had told me so little of her, but there were things he had. I knew she had been well loved by people, that she'd had friends. I knew that she was intelligent and patient and that she had loved me. He'd told me that more than enough times, “Silvia, your mother loved you so bleedin’ much,” He'd say in a tone as if he were addressing a wounded animal, “She never would have left us if she'd been given the say.”

So I knew that, at least. I knew she hadn't abandoned me on purpose. She hadn't been a suicide or run off because she just didn't care. Still, I just couldn’t bring her face to my mind. I'd seen pictures, so I knew what she looked like, but I couldn't see her. She had red hair, but not like mine. Hers had been light, almost blonde. I remembered that. I remembered her hair, shiny and soft. It was curly like mine, too, but she cut it short, just above the shoulder. Sometimes she wore headbands, thick cloth ones, to keep it out of her face while she worked in the house. Was it cooking or cleaning? I couldn't remember, but I could recall that she always painted her toenails red and she…she?

I strained to remember another detail. What else about her? Nothing. That my father seemed to be ruined after she died? Yes, that was about it.

Then there was my father. So dull, passionless. Constantly buried in his work. Surrounded by words. Words. Words. Pens. Ink. Books. Click, click, click on the keyboard, always writing, always working. That was my father. No interest in anything past his nose. I was certainly past his nose. He never came to visit on hols, not that I had expected him to. He had nothing to say when I rang him. I thought about tossing him a bell from time to time, or even popping in on him for a visit, to ask him about my mother. I had so many questions, but I wondered if he would even tell me anything at all.

I wondered if I really cared.

It bothered me, though, the way I had so little emotion toward him and was so curious about her. And, still, I didn’t miss either. What was wrong with me? Why was I so disconnected? What had happened to my family? Why was I so cut off from my own blood? I had a sister that I adored, but our only contact was the phone. She had never come to visit me anymore. I had a cousin. His name was Oliver as well, and I loved him dearly when we were children, but I had not seen him since I left Scotland. Not that I would have gone and looked him up. What would I have said? “Hello, Cousin Oliver! It’s Silvia and I’ve got nothing to say, just feeling so bored I’ve gone loopy!”

No, nothing seemed to matter from before I came to the wood. It wasn't worth reaching back to find anybody. That had been a different life all together and I had a new one now. I was where I would always stay, even when I wasn’t feeling so well and even in the rare event that Oliver and I weren’t getting on.

We’d had a fight the night before, a right nasty one, too. We disagreed from time to time, but it was rare either of us lost our tempers or shouted. It did happen where we would, but that night was the first that anything had ever come close to violence. Any time we ever had a fight it was almost always about finances. That time was no different. Oliver had gone absolutely ballistic on me when he found out that I’d phoned my father and asked him for money.

“We don’t need his money!” Oliver shouted at me. His hands were balled into fists, “Damn it, Silvia! I could work extra hours to make that much! I told you not to ask anybody! You completely disobeyed me!”

“All you do is work extra hours as it is! It’s not enough, Oliver!” The stress of not being able to pay the bills was too much for me. Any calm I might have had cracked right there. It hadn't been an easy thing to ask my dad and I was already ashamed and defensive about it, “Even when both of us work extra hours sometimes it’s not enough! Do you think it’s a better idea if we can’t pay for one of the cars and they come and take it? We owe so much money on this house and you just keep building on to it…”

“Would you rather have it so small you can smell my breath across the room? Is that what you want?” He threw his arms into the air, “Well, Christ, Silvia, if I‘d known that I wouldn‘t have spent most of my trust fund trying to make an acceptable home for you!”

“That’s not what I’m saying! I’m saying…”

“You’re saying nothing!” He was furious. His dark brows were furrowed, his frown so deep it actually distorted his face, “You’re telling me that what I do isn’t good enough! I built this house for you, Sil! Do you really think I want to work ten hours a day, go to school all night and come home to put up walls around you and then hear you bitch about not having space for your shoes?” Now he was ranting. He kicked the back of a chair and it turned on to its face. It scared me so badly I began to shake. Oliver continued, “Ever think of that? I work my arse off every day of the week, including Sunday, because I’m the only one who ever chops the fucking wood! I’m still disregarded! Christ, Silvia!” He kicked the chair again. It spun toward me, “I could be hanging around with my friends! It would be a hell of a lot more fun than this! “

That stung. All I had done earlier was mention that I needed more cupboard space. I hadn‘t known he would feel I was complaining. However, I reacted to the insult with anger and quickly changed the subject back, “Would you rather have had me not ask my dad and have them come and take my car because we couldn’t make the payment? I‘d have to quit school, I‘d lose my job! I work too, remember?”

“And use your money how?” He roared. He was unwilling to listen to any sort of reason. He just wanted to blame, wanted to take his frustrations out and I was the only one there, “I don’t know where your money goes! All I know is that it’s all spent and at the end of the week you have none left and you take mine! I don‘t know where that goes, either! All I know is that we should have minimal expenses and we never have any fucking money!”

“What are you accusing me of?” I couldn’t believe he said that. He knew where every penny was spent. I kept careful accounts on our expenses.

“You shouldn’t have asked him!” He yelled, going back to my father, “I told you not to!”

“No!” I shouted back. Now I was egging him on, “You told me not to ask your parents! They could help us, Oliver! They have money, unlike my dad, and they want to help, but you’re too busy being proud and trying to prove something to your dad that no one but you understands!” Now not only were my feelings hurt, but I was enraged, too. I was enraged at his stupidity and his selfishness, at putting me in a place where I had to beg for cash and then shaming me for it. I began to scream, “Now I want you to tell me about what you just said about me taking your money! You explain! You think I waste money? Oh, aye! Just look at my luxurious life! I still have clothes I wore in high school! Am I dripping in pearls, Oliver? Am I? Where's all my fancy dresses and my big diamond ring? Oy! Look at me! Or are the bloody bills paid? I SAID LOOK AT ME!”