There’s no such thing as ghosts, I tell myself as I creep through my dark house, my feet barely touching the wood floor.

There’s no such thing as ghosts, I repeat as I stare at the broken, bloody body at the bottom of the steps with the strangely familiar face.

There’s no such thing as ghosts, I chant as I reach out to my husband as he descends the stairs towards the body, though he doesn’t notice me.

There’s no such thing as ghosts, I cry, as my husband passes through my outreached transparent hand. But then, what am I?

“Come on, you have to jump now!” she yells as she pulls me hard towards the edge of the bridge.

As I teeter on the edge, looking down into the rushing water, I think, If only I could see her, maybe I could tell if she’s my guardian angel or just another demon living in my head.

“You’re so much like them,” I hear for the dozenth time. I smile and nod politely, even though all I want to do is scream.

I am nothing like my parents! I want to shout. I am against everything they ever stood for! I am their polar opposite!

Except I’m not. Hard as I try, I can’t escape the things I inherited from them. It’s more than just my mom’s red hair and my dad’s pointed nose. It’s my dad’s temper, and my mom’s tendency to reach for a drink the minute things get a little challenging. It’s my dad’s need to be right and my mom’s refusal to acknowledge when there’s a problem. These are the characteristics that I’ve defined them by, and these are the traits that I wrestle with every day.

The outside world never saw any of it, but I did. Growing up, I had to listen as my dad screamed at us; I had to watch as my mom reached for that bottle. I felt the impacts of my dad’s stubbornness and my mom’s denial. They’ve passed on their traits to me, but they’ve also shown me how those traits can hurt others. And I plan to do everything I can to be different.

I can’t eliminate my temper, but I can go to therapy and learn how to deal with anger in healthy ways. I can never be free from the temptation to take a drink when things get rough, but I can learn to face my problems head-on and ask for help when it’s more than I can handle.

And I can surround myself with people who make me better.

I loved my parents. I still do, but now I have people in my life who have shown me how to treat the people I love better.

I may never be able to leave behind the imprints my parents have on me, but maybe, if I learn from others, the things I inherited from my parents will just be small pieces within the patchwork of my life – integral to who I am, but no more important or noticeable than any other. And maybe even less so.

In a lot of ways, I’m easy to get along with. I’m a people-pleaser; I almost always do what’s asked of me. And 99 times out of 100, I’m appreciated for that.

But this . . . this is one thing I refuse to relinquish. Is it so much to ask for a bit of comfort, a bit of relaxation? I’m happy to stay quiet, to mind my own business and not bother anyone else. Why can’t she treat me with the same courtesy?

She stands over me, hovering, glaring. God, I hate that look. But I’m taking a stand, so to speak. I won’t let her take this from me; I deserve this!

“Come on, Charlie!” she says, giving me a little push. But I refuse to move. I can be quite stubborn when I want to be. When she realizes she can’t physically move me, she tries bribery - my favorite food. I admit that I’m tempted, but I stay firm. I’ve claimed my prize, and she won’t take it from me!

“Charlie, this isn’t like you!” she insists. She sounds hurt, like I’ve disappointed her. It almost breaks me. “Why are you being so stubborn?” My only reply is a small whimper. I don’t want to upset her, but I don’t think I’m asking for that much. I’m not being unreasonable, especially not when you consider how I’m normally treated around here!

“Really?” she says finally, her hands on her hips. “This is the hill you want to die on?”

I tilt my head as if I don’t know what she’s talking about, but she knows I understand.

She huffs at me, but I can see the slight smile on her face that tells me I’ve won. “You’re lucky you’re so cute,” she says as she leans over and scratches me behind the ears. “I don’t know why I bother trying to enforce the ‘No dogs on the furniture’ rule.”

BACK TO SCHOOL! the large cardboard sign proclaims. Underneath are shelves filled with every school supply imaginable, right next to the racks of back-to-school clothes.

I remember being in a store just like this one, rolling my eyes as Mom insisted I try on outfit after outfit to find the perfect first-day-of-school look, fantasizing about the day I’d be an adult, when I’d no longer have to endure these shopping trips.

But here I am, ten years post-graduation, longing for the days of summer vacations and back-to-school sales. Instead, I’m stuck with the same, mundane, grueling, low-pay, going-nowhere adult life.

Today would have been our 25th anniversary. That’s silver, isn’t it? Not that he would have gotten me anything. Well, I would have bought myself something, wrapped it, and he would have handed it to me, to “keep up appearances.”

I was young when I married him; too young, probably. But that’s what you did back then. You went away to college, met a man, came home engaged, and married him by the following spring. It was expected. I pretty much always did what was expected of me.

Richard was a good man. As friends, we got along quite well. My family liked him; so did I.

Less than five years into the marriage, I realized that, while he was a good man, he was not a good husband. Or maybe I wasn’t a good wife. We didn’t argue, at least not in front of anyone, but we usually got around that by simply not speaking to each other. There was very little we agreed on – whether I should work or stay home with the kids, how we spent our money, where we should live, who should do the housework.

I was miserable, but I stayed. For nearly 25 years, I stayed. Not for him. I didn’t owe him anything, and he would have understood if I left. No, I stayed for the children. They needed both of us – a mother and a father. So, I stayed.

I stayed right up until I didn’t have to anymore – when my youngest graduated and moved out of the house. We planned it that way, Richard and I. We didn’t tell the children, of course, but it had been planned for years. By the time I left, there were no tears, no hard feelings. The relationship was long over. This was just a formality.

And so, here I am, on the morning of my would-be anniversary, sipping coffee at the dining room table of my cozy apartment, alone. It sounds horrible, something I wouldn’t wish on my greatest enemy. And yet, I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing. For the first time, I’m not living my life for anyone else’s sake. For the first time, I think I might be happy.

“Shoot for the moon,” they said. “Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.” And so I did. I aimed for the moon, shot higher than I had ever dared, higher than I had ever dreamed.

I didn’t quite make it, but that’s okay. They were right – I landed among the stars. And it was beautiful.

It was darker than I had imagined among those tiny pinpricks of light. From Earth, they always seemed so close together – little communities of stars joined together in their constellation neighborhoods. But once I was out there, I realized how lonely they truly were. Even the closest stars were hundreds of thousands of miles apart.

And now I am among them, a dark spot floating in a dark sea, occasionally passing other shadows, blacker than the inky void that serves as our background. Sometimes when I remember who I once was, I search for something to reach for again, but I think I’ve gone as far as I can go. There’s nothing left to reach for, at least nothing that I can see. I can’t even move backward because there is no backward; there is no direction at all. There is only blackness and shadows and tiny pinpricks of light too far away to reach in one timeline or a hundred.

I long to search for the inspiration and motivation I once had, but it’s hard to see by the light of stars and shadows.

My dad is and always has been a lover of puns. So much so, in fact, that both my and my younger brother's early elementary school teachers would rave to our mom during parent-teacher conferences about our ability to comprehend and even take part in wordplay. My mom would just shrug her shoulders, unimpressed, and say, "Oh, that's just because of their dad."

This passion of his permeated my young life in a way that I didn't realize until I was an adult. There were the everyday puns that just happened spontaneously, of course. But often, he would go out of his way to work one into a conversation.

My mom strongly believed in the importance of reading to us when we were young, and Dad begrudgingly would when we asked. But as kids do, we would ask for the same story again and again. To keep himself from getting too bored, he occasionally offered to tell us a story that he made up on the spot.

I wish I could remember all of them because I know there were several, but the one that sticks in my brain was about a little o. This little o was sad because he was all by himself. He didn't have a family or friends. Dad told a lengthy tale of the little o's journey to find others like him - the sights he saw, the people he met along the way.

Finally, the little o found others like him - a big group of Os who gladly accepted him. The little o was elated! Thrilled! He was finally happy. He was . . . a cheery o.

My dad may not be a reader or enjoy stories the way I do, but I can honestly say that I owe a lot of my creativity to him.

Icy fingers suddenly grabbed my arm as I inched through the darkness. I jumped and scratched at the cold fingers, desperately trying to remove them, but I couldn’t find them. My fingers only brushed the bare skin of my arms.

I tried to pull away, but my feet were held to the floor, gripped by some force I couldn’t see in the darkness.

I flailed. Pushing, grabbing, moving every inch of me that would move. I could feel the icy grip overtaking me, but I couldn’t touch it.

I opened my mouth to scream, but the cold fingers were there too, covering my mouth, forcing their way in, down my throat and into my belly.

Cold. So cold.

Summer has always been the star of the show. When she arrives, she makes sure everyone knows it. She times her arrival perfectly to steal attention away from her sister. The moment Spring steps out of the shadows and starts to shyly show her warmth and beauty, Summer pushes past her and steps into the spotlight. She makes sure she shines brighter, hotter, and greener than Spring ever did. She is far too proud to believe that most prefer her sister over her.

Summer’s reign does not last long. Once she has had her time on the stage, she is deposed by her sister Autumn. Autumn works slowly, creeping behind Summer, bringing her chill to gradually, but steadily, push Summer out of the spotlight. As she creeps, she distracts the world with gorgeous hues of red, orange, and yellow and the promise of cool, comfortable evenings that are a welcome change from Summer’s oppressive heat.

But Autumn doesn’t work alone. She only sets the stage for the coming of Winter. Winter is the cruelest of the four. Her presence blankets the stage and sucks the color and warmth from the room, erasing all memory of her sisters. Her hold on the spotlight lasts longer than any of the others, clinging far longer than the audience would like. Some are bored by her unchanging, cold performance; some rail against her harsh, desolate temperament, but all long for the return of Spring.

When the first sister finally reappears, she teases the audience, barely stepping a toe out from behind the curtain before retreating again, leaving the audience alone with Winter. But with sluggish progress, Spring finally makes her way back into the spotlight, gently ushering Winter off the stage, and the audience welcomes her warmly.