I’m a poet.

This is my first birthday without them.

I’m a poet.

And even though the truth of this shines a little light into the darkness—tomb/womb—I’m still left with the fact that my future is as uncertain as ever.

What am I going to do after graduation?

You can’t write poetry all day, I don’t think. How am I going to stay sober when I don’t even have homework or the goal of graduating to keep me busy, focus me even a little bit? And poetry doesn’t pay the bills.

I need a job.

But who would hire an addict who’s graduating by the skin of her teeth? What would I say in an interview when they ask about my interests, my plans? How could I prove that I am responsible in any way, for anything?

When I get to our walkway, there’s a woman standing in front of the house, writing in a notebook. As I get closer, she looks up.

“Oh, hello,” she says. “Do you live here?”

When did it start to feel normal, having my own room in this house?

“I guess I do.” She gives me a weird look. “Yes?”

She reaches out a hand. “Lisa Cole—Realtor. You must be one of the nieces.”

“Realtor?”

She nods. “For the sale. It’s a beautiful house. It’ll go like this.” She snaps her fingers. “I hear you’re going to Annapolis. That’s wonderful!”

“That’s my sister,” I say.

They’re selling the house. Why are they selling the house? Why haven’t they told us?

“Oh, you’re the other one, then. Where are you going to—”

The other one.

“Excuse me,” I say, moving past her, up the walkway, toward the front door.

I turn the knob. Walk inside. Mae is sitting on the couch with Ben and Nate. They’re watching the National Geographic channel, and she smiles up at me, but then she stops smiling because she sees my face.

“What’s wrong?”

She’s on her feet, coming toward me.

Aunt Nora walks out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. I can smell Uncle Tony’s lasagna.

There are balloons. A cake on the table. Presents.

“I just met your Realtor,” I say.

Aunt Nora goes still.

“Realtor?” Mae’s face scrunches up.

I glance at Nate. He’s looking at his shoes. Avoiding my gaze.

Secrets. Lies. This whole family of betrayers.

Mae turns to Aunt Nora.

“I had no idea she was here,” Aunt Nora says. “Nothing’s certain. We were just getting an estimate—”

“Why would you sell the house?” Mae asks.

Mae’s voice is sharp enough to bring Uncle Tony out.

“Well…” Aunt Nora crosses her arms. Uncrosses them. Twists the towel in her hands. “The firm has offered me a promotion. An amazing opportunity.” She swallows. “In New York, actually.”