“What?” I ask.

“She passed away within a year and I never wanted to feel like that again. We never got another cat, and I guess somewhere along the way, never getting another pet became a self-imposed rule and I stopped wondering why.” Another tear rolled down her cheek as she sat on the floor next to Lola, who lets Mom gather her into her arms.

70.

Dad comes by later in the afternoon with some movers. I’d almost forgotten his promise. Mom doesn’t come out of her office, so she must know.

I watch them dismantle my bed and pack it away, and I still can’t believe it’s happening.

“By the way,” I tell Dad, “we have a dog now.”

He raises a single eyebrow. “I noticed.” We share a small smile. When everything is packed up, Mom comes out of the office. They exchange a few words. Dad tells her when to expect the divorce papers. They’re subdued, polite even. It feels like the end of an era.

Not long ago, Mom was anger and Dad was exasperation. These were roles they’d played for years. That was the only story they wanted to tell.

Now she is sorrow and he is regret. They are no longer a powder keg about to explode now that they’re separating. For the first time, I wonder what role I’ve played all these years, what story I’ve been telling myself.

That I’ve been nothing but a pawn in their games.

That they love me only for what I am to them, what I could be to them.

That love is the weapon they wield, the justification for everything they do.

That love is a weapon, period.

And for the first time, I am asking myself if it has to be this way. For the first time, I am asking myself if there’s another story I want to tell.

Trauma has a gravity of its own, and I am forever trapped in its orbit. Try too hard to escape and it’ll tear your whole life apart.

That’s the story I’ve been telling, but maybe I’m only half-right.

Trauma has a gravity of its own, a force you can feel but not see. But it’s not a black hole. It’s not a large, looming celestial body. I am not trapped in any orbit but my own, and all my past mistakes and bad memories are moons that circle me, captured in my orbit. I feel their pull the way the tides do—high, then low. Up, then down. But in the end, I am the one keeping them close wherever I go. I am the one tugging them gently along.

I think about the lies Elise has told me, the ones I was desperate to believe. They were such beautiful lies. The best lies. But now I am ready for the truth.

My wounds don’t make me special. What doesn’t kill me won’t make me stronger. Pain has no lesson to teach, suffering serves no purpose. I am not a tragic heroine trudging down some predetermined path set for me by someone else. I don’t have to be a casualty of my parents’ actions, of my past misfortunes. I don’t have to become my parents, I don’t have to play out their stories.