“I know why you’re here.” Pippa sucks on her straw. “You’re wrong. It wasn’t your fault. Our destinies are prewritten. You didn’t write Dom’s and Barbie’s stories.”

I wish I could believe that. But I can’t.

Winter slowly bleeds into spring. I no longer stay holed up in my room, even though I reserve the right to occasionally treat myself to spurts of self-pity.

At first, I leave the room because Donna gives me responsibilities around the house. Laundry duty, grocery shopping, taking care of the garden. When I protest and tell her all I do is work, she nicknames me Cinderella.

“I guess that makes you the vile stepmother.” I blow her a raspberry one day as I’m folding Dad’s seriously old and tattered underwear.

“You think?” Donna’s eyes widen comically. “That’s great. Good side characters are always boring.”

Dad tells me I should think about my next step. I’m in my midtwenties and currently live rent-free, doing chores like a preteen. But the idea of going out there and finding out who I really am is still paralyzing to me.

Any person I become will be a person who is a virtual stranger to my mom, and becoming that person would be, in a way, truly and finally letting go of her.

This, by the way, is something I share with my new therapist, Lina, whom I see twice a week. Because: issues.

I see Pippa at least once a week. I hang out with Renn and his friends whenever they’re around. I call Nora for weekly catch-ups. She now lives with Colt. They are planning their wedding, and the other day, she asked if I’d attend.

“Are you kidding me? I need to sign a fat check after everything I put you through. Of course I’ll be there,” I answer.

When I ask her if she keeps in touch with Joe, she says, “Nope. He hasn’t really taken any of my calls. Colt tried too. I doubt he wants to hear from any of us, Ev. But I did see him the other day, down the street.”

“When? Where? Who with?” I demand.

There is an uncomfortable silence on the other side of the line before she says, “I shouldn’t . . .”

“Tell me, Nora,” I all but bark at her.

She sighs. “I saw him by the Walgreens. With a woman. A brunette. He had his arm around her shoulder.”

It hurts so much that I spend the rest of my day clutching my chest to keep my heart from spilling out. Joe is trying to move on. Why shouldn’t he? We can’t be together. I was with his brother. Plus, I hurt him the last time we were together. Then, finally, I left. Again.