“Some things you can hold inside,” she said, her voice quiet, steady, the kind of voice that could soothe wounds I wasn’t ready to acknowledge. “But some things will poison you if you don’t face them. Maybe you think it’s easier to just bury it all deep and pretend it doesn’t matter. But I’ve seen it, time and time again…the longer you hold onto it, the more it eats at you. It starts poisoning everything. Your relationships, your peace of mind, even the way you see yourself.”

She patted my hand once, then pulled away, moving to the stove. She took the kettle off the heat, pouring a little more tea into my cup, letting the steam curl between us.

And for the first time in months, I wanted to let go.

I wanted to stop being this.

This exhausted, shut-down, miserable version of myself.

But I didn’t know how.

31

BEVERLY, 1999

17 years old

Dinner was a disaster waiting to happen.

Mom had made mashed potatoes and green beans—one of my favorites. But my appetite disappeared before I even picked up my fork. Mom was tired today; I could tell by the way she held her utensils—loosely, as if even lifting it took effort. She wasn’t eating, just cutting her chicken into tiny, perfect cubes that never made it to her lips.

Dad was filling the silence with meaningless small talk, like he thought if he spoke enough, no one would notice how little she ate. He rambled about how the neighbors had painted their fence a shocking shade of pink, shaking his head like it was the most scandalous thing to happen on our street. Then he moved on to Mrs. Thompson’s cat, who had gone missing for three days before finally turning up in her garage, as if the cat’s grand return was somehow crucial dinner conversation.

Blake was silent as usual, staring at his plate, his jaw working like he was grinding down all the words he refused to say.

Not surprising.

What was surprising was that he even showed up for dinner.

I dropped my fork, trying to ignore the way his presence crawled under my skin like an itch I couldn’t scratch. “I’m done. Can I be excused?”

Dad glanced at my plate. “You’ve barely touched your food,” he noted, his voice laced with concern that felt more oppressive than comforting.

I shrugged, pushing the plate away. “Not hungry.”

Blake’s fork scraped loudly against his plate, a grating sound that made me cringe. It was the only sign that he was listening.

I regretted my words when I saw Mom’s worried glance.

She tilted her head, looking at me with those soft, blue eyes. “Are you feeling alright, honey?”

“Just tired, that’s all,” I murmured, reaching for my glass of water to have something to do with my hands.