I protected my mother’s image.
“She’s busy helping Aunt Courtney.”
Brooklyn accepted that because children often accept the explanation that hurts least.
She tucked the blanket around her legs and turned back toward her sister.
A few minutes later, I picked up my phone again.
My mother had sent another message.
My father had added a question mark beneath his demand.
Courtney had written that everyone was stressed and I was making it worse.
I did not answer.
I opened each contact and blocked them one by one.
My mother.
My father.
My sister.
I did not feel strong while I did it.
I felt hollow.
The decision was not a victory, and it did not repair anything.
It was simply the first thing I could control.
Kevin returned carrying two paper cups and one small bag from the cafeteria.
He looked at my face, then at the phone.
