“MOMS!” the three boys cheer.

The Moms, just as they had at Nightlight, instantly found a way to thrive on their own terms. Lacrishia was already eighteen when we escaped, so as soon as we landed, she was on a train to New York, couch-surfing the entire fall while she started online courses at Columbia. Darcy made peace with her dad in Long Island, but as soon as she turned eighteen, she bolted to Washington Heights, where she and Lacrishia share a studio that’s cramped but one hundred percent theirs.

Despite our radically different home lives, all former campers are united by a common refrain we’re told: “Your parents belong in prison!” Maybe they do and maybe they don’t, but the simple fact remains that all of us were brought to Nightlight underage—you’d be amazed what parents can get away with in the name of “deciding what’s best for their kids.” Our parents joined together under the same deluded, self-serving lie—that they had no idea what was actually going on at Nightlight, or of the camp’s connection to Bill Hannigan. To our parents, this was supposed to be a wholesome religious retreat, one they were legally free to enlist us in. Conversion therapy bans exist in many states for minors, but they’re secular. Religious reasons still persevere over any law.

So, why don’t we hate our families? Why have so many of us come back home?

The nice answer is it’s not so easy to simply cast off the family you’ve known and loved your whole life.

The not-so-nice answer—in some ways, the real answer—is many of us do hate our families. Or mistrust them. It just isn’t good business to cut them off, especially when you’re young. There’s still colleges and cars and phones and beds and bills that need paying. And our parents will pay. We play nice and exchange our love for this payment, some of us more consciously than others.

Do I hate my mom? No.

Do I resent her? Yes.

I’m not as cutthroat on the subject as, say, Molly is. Me, I still believe in my mom. It’s painful stitching, but I still choose to believe.

“I’m starving,” I say, sliding off the bed and into my Toms.

“Everyone’s awake downstairs,” Marcos says. “I forgot, but she asked if you wanted pancakes.”

Even though my stomach is a roiling acid bath, pancakes would be appreciated. I check my notifications one more time. Under my Merry Christmas text is the thing I’ve been waiting for: typing bubbles. Finally, my heart can breathe. “She’s writing back!”

“Who is?”

“My mom!”