I knew my mother was uncomfortable discussing it. But I never imagined she’d go this far.
That Saturday, Dad placed my car keys beside the sink.
“Be gone before eleven.”
I packed a bag and drove to my friend Casey’s grandmother’s peach farm.
Her grandmother, Ruth, took one look at me and handed me a pair of gardening gloves.
“Hands first. Questions can wait.”
I spent the weekend helping her thin peach trees.
Before I left, she showed me a tree everyone thought had died during the winter.
She scratched a small section of bark with her thumbnail.
Underneath was bright green.
“See that? Still alive. Just had a difficult winter.”
I remembered those words for years.
Unfortunately, I needed them.
What began as one Easter weekend became a routine.
Whenever Avery visited, I disappeared.
Sometimes for a day.
Sometimes for an entire weekend.
My mother removed my photographs and belongings from shared spaces. Eventually, she installed a lock on my bedroom door.
