“Mom?” she whispered. “Are we going back there?”
I sat beside her and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Not to beg. Not to apologize. Not ever again.”
Her eyes searched mine.
“Then why?”
“Because sometimes,” I said, “people only understand boundaries when they can see the fence.”
When I arrived at my parents’ house, the curtains were open, though no one inside seemed aware of it. From the driveway, I could see my mother sitting rigidly on the edge of the living room sofa, Brent pacing behind her, my father standing near the fireplace with his back straight and his hands clenched at his sides.
Evelyn sat in my grandmother’s old armchair as if she belonged there.
Thomas Reed stood by the window.
For a strange second, I saw all of them as pieces arranged on a board I had been too afraid to touch for years.
