I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.
Delia showed up on my last morning in the city, carrying coffee and bagels.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said, setting the food down like she could anchor me in place. “You could stay. Find a different job. Give him time to cool off.”
“He told me to leave.”
“He was angry. People say things when they’re angry.”
“He meant it.” I zipped my suitcase closed with more force than necessary, like I could seal the truth inside with my clothes. “You should have seen his face, Delia. He looked at me like I’d killed her myself.”
“You didn’t kill anyone.”
“But my father did.” I sat down on the edge of my mattress, suddenly exhausted. “And I lied about it. How is he supposed to forgive that?”
Delia didn’t have an answer for that. She just sat beside me and put her arm around my shoulders while I cried into my coffee.
“London will be good for you,” she said eventually, though her voice wavered like she didn’t fully believe it. “Fresh start. New opportunities. All that optimistic bullshit people say when they don’t know what else to offer.”
I laughed despite everything. “Very inspiring.”
“I try.” She squeezed my shoulder. “But seriously, Sarah—don’t disappear on me. Call. Text. Send me pictures of boring British things. I need to know you’re okay.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
We hugged goodbye at the door, and I tried not to think about how everyone I cared about kept getting left behind—or how I kept being the one to leave.
Colin met me at Heathrow looking exactly like I remembered: messy dark hair that never stayed where he put it, wearing a jacket that was too thin for the weather because he always forgot London was colder than he thought.
“There’s my favorite sister,” he said, pulling me into a hug that lifted me off my feet.
“I’m your only sister.”
“Details.” He grabbed one of my suitcases. “Come on, the flat’s about thirty minutes by tube. Fair warning though—it’s tiny. Like really tiny. You know those jokes about London apartments being the size of shoeboxes? This one might actually be a shoebox. For kids.”
“As long as it has a bed and a door that locks, I don’t care.”
He glanced at me sideways as we headed toward the underground. His voice lost the teasing edge. “What happened in New York?”
“Long story.”
“I’ve got thirty minutes.”
I told him an edited version on the train—the safe version, the one that didn’t involve heartbreak or betrayal—left out the part about Hector, focused on needing a change and wanting to finally get certified. Colin listened without interrupting, which meant he knew I was lying but was letting me have it.
“Well,” he said when I finished, “whatever the real reason is, I’m glad you’re here. Been weird being in London alone. Nice to have family around again.”
Something in my chest loosened slightly. “Yeah. Nice.”
The flat really was tiny—a studio with a Murphy bed, a kitchen that was more of a kitchenette, and a bathroom you could barely turn around in. But it had big windows that let in weak London sunlight, and it was mine, and that was enough.
Colin helped me unpack, chattering the whole time about his classes and his thesis and this girl in his study group who might be interested in him but he wasn’t sure. Normal sibling conversation that felt surreal after weeks of grief.
“So when’s your exam?” he asked, shoving my books onto a shelf.
