I was seventeen—old enough to crave freedom, young enough to be unsettled by silence. When my family left for Canada without me that summer, the house felt enormous. Every sound echoed. Even the clock felt loud. I worked mornings at a grocery store, ate microwaved dinners, and slept with the radio on just to feel less alone. They were meant to be gone for seven days.
On the seventh day, a postcard arrived. My mother’s handwriting curved across the front—warm, familiar, comforting. She wrote that they’d decided to stop in Vermont to visit friends and would return two days later. I remember the relief washing over me, as if the house itself relaxed. Those extra days passed slowly, but I carried the postcard everywhere,
What happened next changed everything…
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