She came downstairs, rubbing her eyes and yawning into the new morning. We met in the kitchen, and she said, “Mom, I keep having this recurring nightmare. It’s just awful. I want it to stop.” “Can you tell me about it?” I asked. My antenna had gone up at the word recurring. I was really curious to hear what it was that her mind continued to play over and over as she slept. Her first response was that she didn’t want to talk about it; too depressing. Then she just couldn’t help herself, I guess, and out it all came.
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