I started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, watching the perfect house disappear in my rearview mirror. My chest felt hollow. My throat ached from all the things I hadn’t said.
We sacrificed so much for you.
The words played on repeat in my head as I drove. All the way home, through every stoplight, past every familiar landmark. By the time I pulled into my driveway, I felt scraped raw.
EMILY
Imade it through my front door and straight to my bedroom, peeling off the sundress like it was contaminated. Jeans. T-shirt. Hair tie securing the mess on top of my head. Better. I could breathe more easily.
The sunroom called to me, so I went. But when I stood in front of my easel, staring at the half-finished canvas, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The brush felt foreign in my grip. The colors looked wrong. Everything looked wrong.
I set the brush down before I could ruin what I’d already done.
What I needed was to burn off some of this agitation.
The baseball was in the basket by the back door where I always kept it. Dad had given it to me when I was eight, back when he still did things like that. It was scuffed and dirty, the leather worn soft from years of use.
I grabbed it and headed outside.
The wind hit me immediately, warmer than it should’ve been for spring, carrying the smell of rain that hadn’t fallen yet. I walked to the middle of the yard, wound up, and threw the ball hard at the oak tree.
It cracked against the trunk and bounced back. I caught it, threw it again. Harder this time.
Crack. Catch. Throw.
The repetitive motion helped. My shoulders loosened slightly. My breathing evened out.
I kept my eyes on the tree, on the ball, on anything except the green shed in the corner of my yard.
Crack. Catch. Throw.
We sacrificed so much for you.
I threw the ball harder. The leather smacked against my palm, stinging the skin.
I just don’t want to see you disappointed when it doesn’t work out.
The wind picked up, whipping my ponytail around. A few strands escaped and stuck to my lip gloss. I hurled the ball again, putting my whole body into it.
It hit the tree so hard the sound echoed. But when it bounced back, I missed the catch. It slipped past my fingertips and rolled across the grass, stopping dead.
Right in front of the shed door.
Because of course it fucking did.
The wind gusted hard enough that I had to brace myself. Leaves skittered across the grass. Somewhere down the street, a trash can lid clattered.
I stood there, chest heaving, staring at the white leather against the green grass. The shed loomed over it. I’d never opened that door. Not once in three years. I didn’t even like looking at it directly.
You’re being dramatic, Emily.
My mother’s voice was so clear she might as well have been standing next to me.
The memory slammed into me without warning.
Mom’s hand around my wrist, too tight, nails digging in. Her voice so calm, so reasonable. “You’re being dramatic, Emily. You just need some time to think about your behavior.”
The shed door opening. The smell of dirt and gasoline and something else, something stale and wrong. The darkness inside even though it was the middle of the day.
