There was a point when she said, "I love you," all fun and sincerity, believing.

When they ask how many great loves she's had, she rocks the baby seat next to her slightly and says in her no-bullshit manner, "None." Miranda doesn't believe in self-denial.

All her letters were signed with I love you. Three strong words, powerful words, easy to say and easy to understand. Magical words. They sang songs that went, "All you need is love," and she never felt alone.

That was when she went to bed and said, "I love you, Mom."

"I love you too, dear," and it was dark. Counted to twenty-five, opened her nightstand drawer for her flashlight, pulled out Nancy Drew. Her mother would yell if she caught her, "You're going to ruin your eyes."

A rustle, a sound, Miranda's ears perked. Tiptoed slowly down the hall, and her mom was there, on the couch, huddled, so small. Cigarette dangling. It was the robe she hated, pink nylon with frayed edges and faded neon flowers. A moment and then, "Mom?" because she was crying, that was the noise, sobs caught in a throat and Miranda was afraid.

Awkward limbs and frizzy red hair, her nightgown was too small but this was a growth spurt, no need to buy something bigger now. She pulled at the hem, tentative.

"Mom?" but nothing changed, her mother didn't even move.

More assertive now, because her teachers said she was a smart serious girl and her mom always said she was so strong, "I love you," convinced that would make things better. Nothing happened, just bodily tremors and shattered, wet breaths. "I love you, Mom," again, louder, trying to wrap arms around shoulders, the repulsive robe.

Then movement, pushing her away, harsh. "Goddamnit, Miranda, stop saying that! You donıt know what it means. You donıt know what you're saying," glaring red eyes, angry because Miranda did it wrong.

For the first time in her short life, she doesn't have an answer.

"Go back to bed," and she sounds so far away, "Just leave me alone."

Her mother's breathing drowns everything out, her footsteps, her shallow inhaling. Crawls into bed, cold again, angry at herself. She has never been so angry, not when there was a stupid mistake on her long division test, or when she didnıt get the highest grade on a book report.

Sometimes, late, out of the darkness, her mother would creep, pleading. "Tell me you love me, please honey, tell me you love me." She failed. Love is not all you need.

Not everyone is as strong as you, Carrie said, and that fight is over but the words resonate. Itıs not that Iım strong, she thinks, it's just that I don't believe in those things anymore. I don't want to be that person, so I'm not.

She thought she had the answer and picked the wrong one. She vowed then, nothing crossed, eyes squeezed and fingers clenched, I'll never fall for magic again.