My car couldn’t remain in the driveway.
My mail had to be hidden.
When I asked why, Mom said Avery believed I lived and worked in Atlanta.
“Don’t make me a liar,” she warned.
I accepted that explanation because I couldn’t imagine the alternative.
By twenty, I was paying my parents $400 a month for a bedroom I regularly wasn’t allowed to use.
I started recording every forced departure in a yellow notebook.
Date.
Occasion.
Number.
Meanwhile, I worked at a garden center and spent most of my unwanted weekends helping Ruth.
She taught me grafting, pruning and orchard management.
Eventually, she introduced me to Ingred, an old friend who owned an orchard in Washington.
Ingred offered me seasonal work.
I wanted to accept.
But leaving Alabama felt impossible. My father’s insurance covered my medication and therapy, and my mother reminded me of that whenever I complained.
