That was when Eleanor began preparing the paperwork. The eviction documents were already drafted. She was just waiting for Gerald to cross the last line.
He crossed it with confetti on a dinner plate.
Eleanor walked to the front door, then stopped. She turned back—not to Gerald, but to me.
“Pack a bag, honey. You’re coming home with me tonight.”
I stood up. Not fast, not dramatic—just up, the way you stand when you’ve decided something and your body finally agrees.
“Sit down,” Gerald said. His chair scraped back. He was on his feet now too, one hand flat on the table, the other pointing at me. “You’re not going anywhere.”
I looked at my father. Not at his hand, not at the floor. At him.
And for the first time in nine years, I didn’t drop my eyes.
“I’ve been sitting down for nine years, Dad,” I said. “I’m done.”
His mouth opened, but nothing came out. I think—genuinely think—it was the first time anyone in that house had said no to him and meant it.
I walked upstairs.
My room was small—the smallest bedroom, the one with the window that didn’t lock properly, and the ceiling stain shaped like a boot. My backpack, a faded Jansport I’d had since freshman year, was already half packed. Mrs. Herr had told me months ago to keep a go-bag ready, just in case.
At the time, I thought she was being dramatic. She wasn’t.
I grabbed it. Clothes, toothbrush, the SAT prep book, my journal.
Then I reached into my biology textbook and pulled out the photo of my mother at the county fair—cotton candy, laughter, a version of my life that cancer and Gerald had erased. I slipped it into my jacket pocket against my heart.
Tyler was standing in the hallway, 14 years old, still in his baseball jersey, his eyes red.
“Karen—”
I pulled him into a hug. He was almost my height now.
“I’m not leaving you,” I said into his hair. “I’m just leaving this.”
I went downstairs.
Gerald stood at the bottom of the staircase, blocking the door.
“If you walk out that door,” he said, and his voice was shaking now, “don’t come back.”
I walked past him.
He didn’t move to stop me. I think some part of him knew—had maybe always known—that the only thing keeping me there was the lock, and the lock had just been changed.
Eleanor had the car running, headlights on, engine humming, the passenger door already open.
Behind me, I heard Russell’s voice. Quiet, almost apologetic, but clear enough to carry.
“I’ll bring the rest of her things tomorrow, Ma.”
It was the first time Uncle Russell had ever gone against Gerald in front of the family. It would not be the last.
I got in the car. I put my backpack on my lap. I didn’t look back at the house.
Eleanor pulled out of the driveway, and for the first time in nine years, Maple Street got smaller behind me.
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