My mother was a moth before she was a woman. In her short life as a moth, she met my father after a night of storms. She followed him day and night. She knew she couldn’t have him unless she became one of his kind, with hands and legs and a mouth with which she could kiss or whisper soothing words. So, she found this young woman who she entered through the nose and expanded inside of, until she became one with her. Soon after, my mother married my father and she birthed me. The woman who the vessel belonged to remained there, tucked in a corner of the skull. Mother felt her presence manifesting inside the body on rare occasions—a few times, at night, Mother found herself not in her bed, but wandering outside people’s houses, peeking inside, sobbing whilst she watched children sleeping. There was one time when the woman sharing that body with my mother tried to drown some children living across the street by forcing their heads into a sink full of water. Eventually, the woman gave up, as she had figured my mother was stronger, and she hasn’t made her presence felt ever since.