I left home eleven years after Becky died, five years after Rodney drove our station wagon into Tucker Pond and drowned, and six days after a roadside bomb blew Shane to pieces a world away.

I was in the throes of impulsive teenage fury, but what tormented me most was the imminence of Shane’s funeral. Make me homeless, cut another child-shaped hole into my parents’ atrophied hearts, never see my one remaining sibling again, but please, no, don’t make me go to another funeral.

It was the party aspect of it that I couldn’t bear, the forced sense of community that people so enjoyed.

Mrs. Trair brought her oatmeal scotchies. They’re delish!

Brad Pike, I have never seen you look more handsome. That tie brings out the green in your eyes.

At all good parties, there were snacks. Funerals were no exception. Death whispered in mourners’ ears, “You know what would be perfect? Cold cuts.”

There was gatekeeping at parties, usually to the best alcohol or the coziest seats. At funerals, access to deli meats, cheese squares, cookies, and coffee in the back room was selective. You had to be tight with the deceased to garner a backstage pass.

By this point, I’d been to Death’s party twice before. Fool me three times.

I’d left a note on the kitchen table the night before Shane’s funeral. I can’t stand another funeral. I’m sorry. I’m leaving. So they knew I didn’t get kidnapped. It was cruel to leave, yes, but at least I’d left a note.

I stole the money my dad hid in his sock drawer ($145) and hitchhiked to Chicago.

I ran away in a fitful, childish rage, but I stayed away because, when my inner storm settled, from a distance, I was able to clearly see what had seemed blurry up close for years. I’d felt lonelier being near my family than being alone.

When most of them were around, before they started dying off, my older siblings occasionally reminisced about their own youth: that one time Becky fell on Rodney in the haunted house and peed on him; that one time Dad joined the kids in the kiddie pool, going for a running belly flop onto a tube, but ended up popping the pool; and that time Mom threw a Halloween party for the neighborhood, dressed like a cow, and served root beer smoking with dry ice, a separate cauldron filled with root beer and whiskey for the adults.

Trouble was, these fun Hornne memories didn’t include me. I hadn’t been born yet. The mother I remembered was hot-tempered, sarcastic, exhausted, or drunk.