I Was Ready to Pass Sentence When I Realized the Woman in the Dock Was My Carbon Copy

I’m 63. I’m a widow, a judge, and I have lived alone in a house that was always too quiet.

I have no kids, pets, or random phone calls.

I keep people at a distance because it feels cleaner that way, and loss hurts less when your life stays sealed shut.

I had no kids, pets, or random phone calls.

That morning had started like every other weekday.

I stood at the kitchen counter, warming my palms around my mug, and said out loud, just to hear a voice, “You should really get a cat.” The house didn’t answer. It never did.

When I was a kid, I didn’t pray for toys. I prayed for a sibling. Someone who would understand my parents’ moods, the long silences, and my mother’s smile that always felt like we were hiding something.

I used to picture a girl my age running up our driveway, calling my name as if she had always belonged.