I thought about that for a long time.
Trust had been the weapon my parents used best.
But knowledge was something they could no longer take from me.
The following winter, snow fell again.
I stood at the window with Lily in my arms and watched it cover the driveway.
For one terrible second, I could feel that old night in my body—the burning stitches, the dead phone in my pocket, the cold creeping through my shoes.
Then Lily reached up and caught my finger.
Behind us, the house was warm.
My car keys rested on the table.
My phone was charged.
My accounts were mine.
And when I looked at the snow, I no longer saw the road where my family had thrown me away.
I saw the place where their story about me finally ended.
