My heart pounded.
One blink.
Yes.
Because if there was one thing I wanted, it was this:
I wanted the world to know I hadn’t been extra.
I’d been endangered.
Mr. Harlan came too, usually with updates and sometimes with the letter from Grandma Margaret. He didn’t reread it, but he kept it with him like a compass.
One evening, he sat beside me while the facility dimmed its lights.
“Evelyn,” he said softly, “you’ll need a longer-term plan when you’re discharged from rehab. Somewhere stable. Safe. Supportive.”
Home again.
But this time, home didn’t automatically mean my parents.
I stared at him.
He continued, “There are several options: independent supervised housing, a guardian appointed through the advocate system, or a private placement until you turn eighteen.”
Ms. Laird’s voice had a different quality when she spoke about it.
“You get to decide what kind of life you want,” she said. “Your grandmother designed it that way.”
I couldn’t speak much yet, but I could whisper small words now. They came out rough, thin, like my voice was a stranger.
When Ms. Laird asked again what I wanted—what kind of home I could accept—I forced the air through my throat.
“Not… them,” I rasped.
The words hurt.
But they were real.
Ms. Laird’s eyes softened. “Okay,” she said. “Then not them.”
And for the first time, “not them” didn’t feel like rebellion.
It felt like a boundary.
The night before the court review of my parents’ petition, I didn’t sleep.
Not because I was afraid they’d win.
Because I was afraid of what it would feel like to hear them try.
To hear my mother cry for sympathy she didn’t offer me.
