I almost laughed.
She was offering me permission to return to the house she’d spent eight years making me leave.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
Then I hung up.
Mitch contacted me two days later.
He finally admitted what had happened.
When he first started dating Avery, she’d told him about her brother, who had died in a car accident.
Mitch had mentioned my hospitalization.
Except he’d said:
“We lost my sister.”
Avery assumed I had died.
She cried and embraced him, grateful to have found someone who understood her grief.
Mitch didn’t correct her.
When our mother learned what he’d said, she decided preserving the misunderstanding would be easier than explaining it.
Then the lie grew.
The photographs disappeared.
My room became a place of mourning.
My absence became necessary.
Eventually, Avery’s family began grieving someone who was still alive.
Mitch’s voice broke.
