The calm before the storm looms – the kind that leaves just enough air for one last breath. I remember the day our storm arrived. After my last gasp, the rain began to pour. It was a cloudy day at the crowded beach. You ran towards the sea, ignoring my calls. You dove so deep that you couldn't come back up. The water looked sweet to the eyes but was salty on the lips. Salt sharp enough to sting, to burn the mouth. And there I stood, hand outstretched, searching for you. Trying to bring you back to the surface, back home. There was so much water, my daughter, it blurred your vision. Blindness fuels fear. And since you were blind, there was the fear of a truth – a truth you might not have wanted to face or see. You wanted to swim alone. So I surrendered you to the sea.