My eyes are swollen by the time I get home, and I’m sent to my room like a misbehaving teen instead of the eighteen-year-old woman I am. I overhead Chantelle telling Dad that she didn’t think I was mature enough to go to college in New York on my own. He agreed. But he also admitted they don’t have the power to stop me since I’m legally an adult now. I feel like screaming.
I’ve been questioned and corralled, made to feel like my love for Brody is somehow wrong when I know that the only thing wrong about it is our timing. If he goes to jail because of this, I’m never going to forgive myself.
I am yours. No matter what, I text from my laptop since my parents confiscated my phone. They have to ‘figure out what to do with me’. The school is still letting me graduate, but I’m not allowed to attend the ceremony, and they took away my valedictorian title. It’s so unfair, I earned that through hard work and sacrifice. Brody did nothing but support my efforts, which is more than I can say for the two adults downstairs. Chantelle seems to only want to control me and use me as her errand girl so she can meditate and focus on her well-being while I babysit her children. I’m so tired of being the dutiful daughter, used and ignored unless I step out of line.When is it going to be my turn to live how I want?
The hours pass, and I’m left alone to stare at my screen and will for my message to shift fromdeliveredtoread. But the only person who messages me is Tamara. And she’s the last person I want to hear from. If it hadn’t been for her competitive jealousy, none of this would’ve happened.
I’m sorry,she sends.But you should have known better.
I roll my eyes and add her to my blocked senders list, wondering why I ever counted her as a friend at all.
Seems I can’t count on anyone to understand my side of things. Chantelle and Dad tried to get the police involved. They wanted Brody convicted to the full extent of the law, but I begged them not too. I told them I’d deny everything, and I’d never forgive them for taking him away from me. I love him. None of this is as sordid as they’re making it out to be.
It’s getting late. The sun is setting, and I’m losing hope that my pleas not to have Brody arrested have gone unheard. My eyes drift closed, emotional exhaustion weighing them down until a ping sounds from my laptop.
I’m yours too. Are you OK?
I scramble to sit, my fingers flying over the keyboard as I respond.I’m OK. Just worried. I was scared they’d arrest you.
I’m OK. No arrest. But I did have to resign and promise not to teach anymore.
I bite my lip, feeling horrible that I’ve cost him his job.I’m so sorry. We should have waited…
I’m not sorry. I was going to resign, anyway. We’re going to New York, remember?
Happy tears fill my eyes.Of course. But what will you do for a job?
I’m a Miller. I don’t need a job.
I frown a little, not understanding.
Come downstairs. I’ll explain in person.
You’re here?I send quickly, jumping up and rushing to the window. I spot him leaning against his car. He waves up at me, smiling that beautiful smile I love so much.
“I’ll be right down,” I call from the window.
“I’m coming in to get you,” he calls back, and my heart soars, back flipping with happiness.
I rush around my room, emptying drawers of clothes into a bag before adding the framed photo of my mom on top and zipping it up, dragging it all downstairs.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Dad demands when he sees me with the bag.
“I’m leaving,” I say simply.
His mouth opens, but no words come out. This is the longest amount of time he’s spent looking at me for years, and something about the way he averts his eyes tells me he’ll be relieved when I’m gone.
“You’re going to let her go?” Chantelle demands, glaring at Dad. “Just like that?”
“She’s an adult now, Chantelle. I can’t stop her.”
“But she’s your daughter,” she argues, and for the first time in our relationship, I realize that Chantelle actually does care about me. Maybe I’ve been giving her a bad rap. Maybe she was just doing her best trying to care for a girl without a motheranda father. I suppose it’s not easy loving a child who isn’t yours.
“It’s OK,” I say, giving Chantelle a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be happier this way. I think you will be too.”
Her eyes water. “I—will you call at least? Visit for the holidays?”
“Of course,” I say. “We’re still family.”
