“Why?”
I looked at the photograph.
A younger version of myself stared back at me.
Sixteen years old.
A girl who still believed every family had a place they belonged.
A girl who had no idea how quickly a life could change.
“Because I never knew how to explain it.”
I walked toward the kitchen table and sat down.
Julian remained standing.
“The official story was that she left,” I said.
“Left?”
“Yes.”
The word felt bitter.
“My father told everyone she needed space. That she wanted a different life. That she abandoned us.”
Julian was silent.
“And you believed him?”
I looked up.
“I was sixteen.”
The answer came out sharper than I intended.
Not because of him.
Because of the memory.
“At sixteen, you don’t question everything adults tell you. You think parents know the truth. You think they protect you.”
I looked at the note again.
