Chapter 8
I stayed home for college.
Not because of fear.
Mostly.
I got into the community college nursing program.
Mom had been a nurse.
I used to think following her path would hurt.
Instead, it felt like walking with her.
Dad offered to help me find an apartment.
I said not yet.
He looked relieved and guilty at the same time.
“We don’t have to rush independence,” Dr. Porter told us.
I liked that.
Brenda moved two towns over.
I saw her once at a gas station.
She was putting air in her tires.
I froze by the pump.
She saw me too.
For one second, the whole winter came back.
The door.
The chain.
The shed.
The snow.
Then Brenda looked away first.
Not sorry.
Not angry.
Just away.
I got in my car and drove home shaking.
Dad found me in the yellow shed.
“Do we need to call someone?”
“No.”
“Do we need ice cream?”
“Yes.”
We got ice cream.
Healing is practical like that.
A year after the snow night, Dr. Porter asked if I wanted to write Brenda a letter.
“Do I have to send it?”
“No.”
So I wrote.
Brenda,
You locked me outside because you thought cold would teach me obedience.
It taught me something else.
It taught me that I can survive a night I should never have been given.
It taught me that my father can still choose me.
It taught me that cruelty is not discipline.
I don’t forgive you yet.
Maybe I never will.
But I am not outside anymore.
Nia
Dad read it only after I offered.
He cried.
Obviously.
I placed the letter in Mom’s recipe box.
Not because Brenda belonged there.
Because I did.
Another year passed.
Dad started dating someone named Rachel.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
She was a librarian with laugh lines and zero interest in redecorating our house.
The first time she came over, she brought me a book and asked, “Where would you like me to sit?”
Such a small question.
It made my chest ache.
I pointed to the armchair.
She sat there.
Not Mom’s spot.
Not Brenda’s old spot.
A new spot.
I liked her for that.
Dad asked me privately what I thought.
I said, “She doesn’t act like the house owes her anything.”
He smiled.
“That’s good?”
“That’s great.”
Rachel never tried to be my mother.
That helped me love her.
At my nursing pinning ceremony, Dad sat in the front row with Rachel, Maya, and Mrs. Clark.
Mom’s photo was tucked into my bag.
Afterward, Dad hugged me so hard I squeaked.
“You did it.”
“We did some of it.”
May you like
“No,” he said. “You did it.”
I let him give me that.
