Even my mother threw my things out.
The first thing I saw when I came home—no, back to the house that no longer felt like home—was my suitcase. Ripped, bursting at the seams, my clothes spilling over the cracked stone steps of the packhouse.
My sketchbook? Soaked. My hoodie Cain gave me when I was sick? Torn.
And not a soul in sight.
Except her.
My mother.
The woman who once braided my hair and told me I had eyes like the moon.
She stood in the doorway like a gatekeeper of pain. Her arms crossed. Her voice void.
“Don’t come back.”
She said it like she meant it.
Like she practiced it.
Like she wanted it to hurt.
And of course, it did.
But what hurt more?
Cain wasn’t there.
Cyrus wasn’t there.
Not to defend me. Not even to say goodbye.
Hell—maybe they were happy I was gone.
