Page 1 of Forgotten Dreams

Chapter 1

Sierra

I pull up to the house I’ve grown up in my whole life and turn off the car. Getting out, I look across the street to see Mr. Jackson outside, watering his potted plants. “Hey there, Sierra,” he greets me, looking up once he hears my car door slam shut. “How are you doing?”

“I’m good.” I smile at him, holding up my hand to say hello.

“How is the new age treating you?” He turns off the water to make sure he’s not wasting any while talking to me.

“So far so good.” I shrug. Today is my twenty-fifth birthday—a quarter of a century old.

“If it makes you feel any better”—he smirks—“I don’t feel a day over seventy.”

I tuck my phone in the back pocket of my jeans and laugh. “I’ll be sure to remember that,” I say, turning and looking at the house. “I have to get in there. My parents get really upset if they aren’t the first ones to wish me a happy birthday.” He nods and turns the hose back on to continue to water his flowers.

I walk up the pathway to the five steps to the front door. I turn the doorknob, trying to push open the door, only it doesn’t budge. I touch the keypad and enter the numbers two, four, nine, one. I hear the lock turning to open before I push the door open. “Hello!” I shout. “Your favorite and only daughter is here.” I make the joke because I’m an only child. I toss my keys on the brown side table at the door before stepping into the house that holds so many memories. I walk straight past the staircase to the kitchen, where I would normally find my mother, but it’s empty and spotless, of course. “Mom!” I holler her name as I walk toward the front door and start up the steps to the bedroom.

The wall is filled with memories throughout the years. In the middle is a picture we took when my father finally became a judge. He was a lawyer for twenty years before he was elected to be a judge. I still remember how proud he was when he told us. My mother made such a big deal about it. I swear, there were never-ending parties for a good month. That’s what you get when your father is a big deal. He was friends with everyone, and it didn’t hurt that my grandparents were very wealthy and involved in politics back in the day.

It's a painted portrait that we sat posed for not just a snapshot, that would have been too easy for my mother. Nope, she wanted it like they have the royal families have it. It was something my mother had longed for, for so long. My father, being so in love with my mother, made sure she got everything her heart desired. So he did it without even a grumble. My mother sits on the chair in a pink gown. Obviously, she needed a gown. I’m surprised she didn’t insist on us getting tiaras. Her hands are on her lap while my father stands proudly beside her on one side, and I stand on the other. My own pale-blue gown drapes to the ground, hiding the fact I am wearing flip-flops. The smile on our faces lights up our eyes, and I can remember it like it was yesterday, not almost eight years ago.

Next to the grand portrait are pictures of our family through the years—from the first day they brought me home to Christmas last year. Twenty-five years of memories on one wall is crazy, yet every time I catch a glimpse of one, I’m immediately taken back to said memory.

“Mom!” I shout when I get to the top of the steps and see the four bedroom doors open. I’m about to go to their bedroom at the end of the hall when the phone rings from my back pocket.

Pulling it out, I see it’s my mother calling. “Wow,” I answer without saying hello, “I’m home, and you’re not here.”

“I know. I know. I know,” she pants, and I can hear people talking in the background as she hustles. “I had to pick up a couple of things, and my car didn’t start this morning, so I had to drag your father out with me,” she groans. “Happy birthday, my angel,” she says softly. “Am I the first to say it?” she asks eagerly.

“Um,” I start, “you texted me at midnight, like on the dot, and then at four o’clock and another one at seven thirty.”

“But those don’t count,” she retorts. “I knew I should have called you this morning, but I was going crazy, and your father said I would wake you,” she grits between clenched teeth. “Good going, dear,” she mutters to my father, who is probably walking beside her, “worst parents ever.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s a little extreme, don’t you think?” I laugh. “I mean, ever is huge.”

“We have to pick up a couple of things, and then we’ll head home,” she explains. “Don’t talk to anyone or answer the phone until I get there and wish you a proper happy birthday.”

“Got it,” I tell her. “But can you hurry up? I’m starved since you told me not to eat.”

“You can go into the kitchen and have one cupcake,” she whispers like someone is going to hear her, “but only one.”

I smile as I listen to her whispering as if it’s going to be a secret from everyone else in the world. “You are too kind.”

“Bye, angel,” she says. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Mom,” I reply, hanging up the phone. I turn to walk downstairs when I remember I wanted to get a special picture from their wedding for their anniversary coming up in a couple of months.

I walk into the spare bedroom on the side, grabbing the white stepladder from the closet before going to the attic stairs. I open the ladder and have to climb up to the third rung before I can reach the latch and pull it down. I step off the ladder and move it to the side to climb the wooden ladder built into the door.

Moving up into the attic, I duck my head until I’m standing inside. Looking at the right side, I see the Christmas decorations ready to go in four months. Taking another step in, I see blue bins stacked on the left-hand side, all with my name on them. Mom’s kept pretty much most of my outfits since I was born. I take a couple more steps in and see she has all my school stuff in white bins. It’s only three bins. Thankfully, she didn’t keep all my art projects. But they are condensed and labeled by school year. I shake my head as the phone rings again, and when I take it out, I see it’s Lilah calling.

“Hello,” I answer, putting the phone to my ear and smiling. Lilah and I became friends when we were both sixteen years old, and we joined a fan fiction group for our favorite author, Cooper Parker, who writes cozy mysteries. We would comment on the same post and then quickly started chatting in private messages. To this day, the minute Cooper Parker puts out a book, we take the day off work and read it cover to cover on FaceTime, discussing it chapter by chapter. It once took us fourteen hours, but it cemented our friendship, and when she got kidnapped last year, I rushed to be by her side. Even though our friendship is mostly online, she’s my best friend.

“Happy birthday!” she shouts out with happiness as she proceeds to sing to me.

I laugh. “Thank you,” I say, taking a couple more steps in and trying to spot the box I’m looking for. I see things that are my dad’s when I spot a box with wedding written on it.

“What exciting things are you doing today?” she asks as I stop in front of the box.

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