For 8 years, my parents made me leave the house every time my brother brought his fiance over; Mom said, “She comes from a good family, don’t embarrass us”; Dad added, “Just disappear for the weekend”;

But leaving Alabama felt impossible. My father’s insurance covered my medication and therapy, and my mother reminded me of that whenever I complained.

So I stayed.

And kept adding numbers to my notebook.

The first sign that something was seriously wrong came when my grandmother died.

Avery was attending the funeral.

My mother told me I couldn’t attend the church service.

“You can come to the graveside afterward.”

Someone eventually handed me a copy of the obituary.

It listed my grandmother’s surviving daughter.

Her grandson, Mitch.

But not me.

I confronted Mom.

She said it was an unfortunate mistake and accused me of making an already difficult day worse.

I wanted to believe her.

Instead, I wrote another entry in my notebook.

A year later, Avery walked into the garden center where I worked.

I recognized her immediately.

She’d never seen me.

She wanted a flowering dogwood for her church’s memorial garden.

“My boyfriend’s family lost someone,” she explained. “His mother finds Easter particularly difficult.”

I assumed she meant my grandmother.

I helped her select a beautiful tree and checked its graft.

On the nursery tag, I wrote my usual instructions:

Water deeply during the first summer. The graft is healthy. She’ll bloom.

Avery smiled.

“You look strangely familiar.”

I nearly introduced myself.

But years of following my mother’s instructions had made silence automatic.

I sold her the tree and watched her leave.

I had no idea what I’d just done.

By 2022, Mitch and Avery were preparing for their wedding.

My mother had already informed me that I wouldn’t be attending.

That Easter, another message arrived.

The Lockhearts are coming Saturday. Be gone before ten.

I opened my notebook.

Departure number 211.

I was twenty-six, had my own health insurance and no longer had a practical reason to stay.

Yet I still packed my bag and drove to Ruth’s.

That evening, I discovered I’d forgotten some medication.

The bottles were locked inside my bedroom.

Ruth looked at me.

“Go get what’s yours.”

So I drove home.

The Lockhearts’ car was still in the driveway.

I approached quietly, intending to retrieve my medication without causing an argument.

Then I heard voices near my bedroom.

Avery’s mother, Suzanne, was standing outside the door.

My mother stood beside her, holding a tissue.

Suzanne gently touched the door.

“May I?”

Mom nodded.