I am at home on the couch. Nonchalantly watching a random reality TV show as my dog sits on my lap. He's a husky named Marshmallow (clearly this was not my decision). And he's easily too big to fit the entire length of himself on my lap. But it's a bit difficult to do anything about it when he still seems to think he can get away with being a lap dog. And, of course, today I get his rear end and obnoxious tail in my face instead of his head, which is resting on nothing less than the pillow. He's out cold—with the exception of the occasional twitching of the nose.

But despite this, I enjoy his presence, although I am much more of a cat person. And, even better yet, I am enjoying the quiet. It is something that I am rarely able to have around the house, but it seems as if, somehow, some way, something has finally aligned in my favor.

Suddenly, however, Marshmallow jumps up and begins to bark, very ungracefully using my lap as a spring board as he vaults himself through the air to fling himself at the very mysterious (and most likely invisible) threat that he thinks he has heard this time.

I am about to tell him to be quiet, but then remain silent. My six year old daughter has just flown into the room, her feet sliding to a halt on the wooden floorboards beneath us.

Marshmallow still causing a ruckus, Anna exclaims, "Mama I found your pearl necklace—and I wanted to try it on with my dress for the New Year's party!"

Inwardly, I sigh. She shouldn't be able to get away with these acts anymore. Yes, dress up is a fine game to play, but she shouldn't be going through my things without permission. It makes me wonder why she was even in my room to begin with. But the look of pure delight in her eyes as she twirls, her brown curls bouncing this way and that, is something I don't want to wreck.

Because, frankly, it reminds me of something.

Red hair.

And her shining green eyes.

Blue eyes.

I snap out of it instantaneously, and say, "Anna, you look beautiful. Maybe we'll think about getting you your very own in the next couple of years."

But I've said that before.

You look beautiful.

I know I have.

Now Anna's face lights up even more. The more excited she gets, the more and more I seem to remember again…

Red hair.

Blue eyes.

Winter. Snow.

Polish.

Chocolate?

Spinning.

Dancing, but I don't dance.

'You look beautiful.'

It is only Anna's voice that jolts me back to reality, "I'll be so pretty, maybe I'll even meet someone. He'll ask me to dance," she clasps her hands with delight.

What has happened to my parenting skills? She's too young to be thinking about such things. I play along anyway, but I've only succeeded, it seems, in coming halfway back to the present day. And it shows: "He will be a very lucky boy….or she will be a very lucky girl."

"What do you mean—she?" Anna wrinkles her nose.

At her words, I blink in shock. Had I really just said that? I could have sworn it was only a thought.

That's something she would have done.

Why are memories suddenly attacking me from every corner?

Blue eyes.

Wide.

'Did I say that out loud?'

'Yeah.'

A blush that matches the hue of red hair.

Focus.

I need to focus.

Anna. My daughter. I need to explain myself now.

"Anna, why not? You can dance with anyone you want. Love anyone you want."

"You love Papa," she argues.

"Yes," I say.

"Papa is a boy."

"Yes."

"But you could love a girl?"

"Yes," I say, without hesitation.

"Then you don't love Papa?"

The words hang in the air for a moment. The seemingly most innocent of words, strung together so precisely, hit me like a slap in the face. Who was this life lesson for again?

"Oh, Anna, come here," I say, holding my arms out and enveloping her in a hug, "Of course I love your Papa. When….you're older you'll know what I mean."

But do I?

Red hair.

Do I even know what I mean?

Blue eyes.

I had been so certain that I had been able to conceal it all.

'Beautiful.'

But these memories…they're going to be the death of me. I know it.

I hold onto Anna for a few seconds longer than usual, although she doesn't seem to notice. While she is oblivious to it, her words make something snap inside of me. Something that I've worked long and hard to mend, to store away, to put back together without it falling apart again.

And it's been….okay, recently. I can't say good, because that wouldn't be the truth. But it's been okay.

And now….now it's not.

Because a little piece of it—and me—has just shattered.

And from the opening now leaks a small tear, which I need those few extra seconds to wipe away.

A/n: Well, first and foremost, I don't own Frozen. Second, it's my first fanfic, so that's exciting….And third just thought I'd clear it up in case you haven't caught on (although you most likely have)—normal text is present day, and italics is her memories of the past. Chapters are meant to be short/angsty(ish) but I have big plans for where it's headed.

Thanks for reading :)