The say children owe their parents everything. Gratitude for life, obedience for love. And if we dare defy them, there’s guilt. Curling in the pit of the stomach like smoke that chokes you. You displease them, and it stays with you, like a soft scar only you can feel but not see.
So we nod.Smile.Show up.Pretend.
Because to say no feels like betrayal, and I’ve never been brave enough for that.
So here I am. Getting ready.
Since I’ve changed my wardrobe, purged the nun-like dresses Anya always mocked, I’m left with scraps of impulse. Dresses bought on a whim, coaxed into my hands by Veronica’s persuasive charm and a need to feel something other than invisible.
My eyes land on the emerald one and the memory is instant. The way it clung to me and how the night unravelled. The look in Mass
