I was writing.Not just filling pages with grief, but shaping something out of it.Outlines spread across the dining room table like puzzle pieces, sticky notes clinging to every available surface.I’d stopped writing in my journals and started writingchapters.A different kind of therapy, one that made me sit taller in the chair, made me feel like my words might live somewhere beyond this house.
Still, the whispers didn’t go away.Grocery runs meant eyes tracking me down the frozen aisle.The post office meant shoulders turning inward, phones tilted just so.The quiet shaming had become a background hum, like power lines you can’t tune out.
But life didn’t stop either.
Jackson dumped his backpack on the counter every day after school, begging for help with projects I knew nothing about, dragging me outside to kick a half-deflated soccer ball through snowmelt puddles.Clara and Mason had started moving toward something steadier: house listings, late-night talks, cautious hope, rare afternoons spent soothing Clara’s spirals when doubt crept back in.Brody was around more than not: hauling lumber, fixing a hinge at my parents’, teaching Jackson how to split kindling with slow, patient hands.Every time I caught him watching me, that same quiet intensity stirred in my chest.
And then one night, I overheard the fight.
I hadn’t meant to.I was on the stairs, halfway down to grab a tea, when Dad’s voice snapped through the hall: “I can’t get involved.Not with this.”
Mom’s reply was low, but sharp enough to slice.“And yet Cassidy’s private medical choices end up as gossip fuel for half the town.That doesn’t seem to bother anyone.”
The world tilted.My hands gripped the banister.
Dad again, weary.“I’m not that clinic.I’m not her doctor.I can’t say it.I shouldn’t evenknow.They’re putting me in a position I never should’ve been in.I don't know how she was even given an appointment with me.”
And then Mom: “Our daughter is broken because of them.”
Silence.Heavy.Crushing.
Behind me, Clara appeared, silent as breath, and wrapped her arms around me from behind before I could run.No words, just that anchor-hold only an older sister could give.I let her, just for a moment.
Later, in my room, I stared at my outlines, my chapters.Tried to convince myself it didn’t matter what Dad knew, what anyone knew.Andrew had already taken enough of me; I couldn’t let this, whateverthiswas, unravel me further.
So, I wrote.Scene after scene.Fiction, but not really.My words carved out the things I couldn’t say aloud: the gaslighting, the false promises, the way he’d made me feel like both a prize and a dirty secret.
The cursor blinked when my email pinged.
From:Marin — Northlight Literary
Subject:Your Pages
Cassidy,
Your pages gutted me.The restraint.The clarity.The ache.
I spoke to my team at Northlight this morning.We’d like to represent you formally and begin shopping the novel immediately.Harbour & Finch would like to pre-empt, and two other houses have already requested the full.(Yes, from just these opening chapters.)
I know this is personal.I also know you’ve been careful to fictionalize the particulars, names, places, and dates.We’ll make sure you’re protected.We’ll handle the legal vetting and keep you safe while preserving what makes the workyours.
If you’re willing, I’d like to set a call for tomorrow.We can discuss title possibilities (I keep circling 'The Truth Between Us'), rollout strategy, and how much you want to make public facing.
You have a voice people will rally to.When you’re ready, I’m ready.
—Marin
I read it once.Twice.Three times.My pulse climbed higher with each pass.
The house outside my door kept moving; Clara laughing with Mason in the kitchen, Dad pacing in his office, Mom humming some song under her breath as she folded laundry.Life went on.And yet inside this room, my life was shifting, just a fraction, just enough.
I pressed my hand to my chest, breath catching.
Not broken.Not invisible.Not noise.
I could be me.Share my voice.My truth.
I couldn’t stay in the house that night.Not with Mom hovering like I might shatter again, not with Dad avoiding my eyes, guilt written across his face like an unfinished sentence.
