And then she slammed the door, unleashing a petrifying shriek that poured from beneath my dry lungs. I shivered under the icy moonlight; the snowflakes sailed swiftly against the ashy horizon. From the frothy window I gazed at her — the taller, fairer, more elegant image of me — cradling her pink, giggly toddler of a nephew and holding him close to her warm breasts. She held him by the fireplace. But she never held me. She never hugs me anymore.