47
The day I moved out was exhilarating and terrifying. Like jumping out of a plane. Only, I didn’t have a parachute. I was eighteen—too old to be his little girl anymore, too young to make a major life decision. Still, I understood that, the second I showed Dwight our tape, there would be no coming home again. You don’t break up with—and blackmail—someone, then slink back a week later, say “my bad” and expect it all to be okay.
Mom didn’t fight my decision to leave. I didn’t realize I wanted her to until she made it clear that she wasn’t sorry to see me go. Not that I blamed her. I came and went at all hours of the day and night, got caught with random men—even after Bruce—and always refused to apologize.
“I’m glad you’re growing up, Jessica. Of course, we’re here if you need us.” Mom
