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She always said the story really began in Louisiana, but she knew that wasn't true.

To understand what followed her into adulthood, into apartments, relationships, and sleepless nights,

she had to start much earlier in a place she barely remembered herself.

A childhood lived partly in Mexico, remembered less through memory than through the way her mother spoke about it, carefully and often.

As a child, she had been different.

Not in a way that alarmed anyone at first.

Her mother described her as creative, imaginative, unusually comfortable on her own.

She could sit for hours, talking to herself, carrying on long conversations with an intensity that suggested she wasn't simply playing.

At first, her mother assumed loneliness.

There weren't many children around, and imagination was a comfort.

Most kids had imaginary friends.

That idea alone explained everything until the day her daughter asked her to meet them.

She remembered the smile clearly.

The confidence.

They're right here, the little girl said, gesturing beside her.

Her mother laughed gently and told her the friends were only in her head,

that maybe it was time to spend more time with children

her own age. The reaction that followed wasn't playful or stubborn. It was grief. The child

cried and insisted over and over that she wasn't lying, that they were standing right there.

...