Back when she was still in Berlin, every night, like clockwork, Mama would come to her bedroom at precisely 10 p.m. Not a second later. She would quietly rearrange the covers over MJ’s body and mutter something about ghosts waiting to snatch her away if she slept uncovered. Ghosts. Ghosts, Mama thought, were just itching to steal MJ from her bed if she wasn’t perfectly covered in her blanket.
MJ used to roll her eyes every time Mama performed that bedtime ritual. As if being properly tucked in was going to repel those ghosts. Ghosts, seriously? How old was she, like, 12? Maybe 13? It was all a bit much, but she never had the heart to tell her mama that her ghost-warding routine was a little over-the-top for a middle schooler.
It was funny, really. The only “ghost” she had encountered in recent weeks was a bottle of expired milk (a dairy one at that, which, given that she’s lactose intolerant, felt like a whole other level of haunting) sitting in her fridge. If Mama knew about the state of my fridge, she’d insist on performing an exorcism through a FaceTime right now.
Yet, her skepticism didn’t stop her from pulling her own blanket up a little higher on cold nights, especially when she found herself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this whole being-an-adult thing was more of a scam than she originally thought.
She’d still laugh at it, though. Spiritual protection? Ridiculous. Who believed in that stuff anymore? Not MJ. Ghosts aren’t real. Period. But eventually, with her ironic detachment and newfound wisdom, MJ had come to realize that her mama’s nightly ritual was never about superstition. It was love wrapped in caution and maybe a tiny bit of misplaced (or dare she says slightly irrational) fear.
But MJ couldn’t shake the irony of it all. The same mother who would demand that MJ be brave enough to face the world was the same one who insisted that the ghosts were coming for her if she wasn’t tucked in just right. A contradiction she was never quite able to unpack, not even as she became more cynical with age. How do you reconcile with the fact that someone who raised you to face your fears also armed you with a blanket fortification? Did Mama, as an adult, truly believe in this? Or was it just an endearing way to assure MJ that there was someone who cared enough to check, even if the circumstances were... well, like this?
She wondered why the ghosts were always such a threat. Sure, she could blame it on her mama’s thoughts on war-torn Berlin, but there was something she hadn’t realized until recently: the ghosts began to morph into something deeper now, something she feared even more at the ripe old age of twenty than they ever had at twelve.
Mama had always said that the key to avoiding ghosts was to be covered in blankets. But what was the equivalent of that now? Tucking herself in under the thick covers of achievement? Staying busy enough to banish the creeping fear of failure? She’d like to think she was a little beyond needing that kind of protection. After all, she reasoned, no ghost could hurt her if she had her résumé printed and her responsibilities lined up like this.
Maybe Mama had been right, in some strange way. MJ remembered something Mama used to say, something about “being wrapped up” in life and that no matter how scary the world seemed, as long as you had your blanket (or, metaphorically, your purpose), you’d be safe. Or at least, you’d feel a little less vulnerable.
Still, late at night, she found herself wishing for something as simple as Mama’s nightly check-ins. The comfort of knowing someone was looking out for you, even if it was from a safe distance. Sometimes she even wondered if she should text her mom just to hear her voice, hear those old ghost stories one more time.
But of course, she didn’t.
