Part 2: The House I Kept Alive
I left before anyone found their voice.
My chair scraped back, and my mother whispered my name like a warning, but I was already moving. I grabbed my coat, walked past framed photographs of Serena shaking hands with judges and executives, and opened the front door.
Cold rain hit my face.
I did not look back.
As I crossed the driveway, I saw bodies moving through the dining room windows. My father was standing now. My mother had both palms on the table. Serena was no longer pretending to be bored.
Good.
I started my SUV and drove away from the house I had kept alive.
For miles, Seattle blurred into red taillights and silver rain. I gripped the wheel so hard my wrists hurt.
That house had always known how to swallow me.
When we were children, Serena’s spelling bee ribbons went on the refrigerator. My science fair certificate went in a drawer. When she got into law school, my parents threw a catered party. When I commissioned as a Navy officer, my mother mailed a card with no handwritten message.
