Chapter 9
August arrived too quickly.
My suitcases sat open on my bedroom floor.
One for clothes.
One for books.
One for all the versions of myself I was trying to take with me.
Mia was four months pregnant by then.
Her bump had just started showing.
She pretended not to notice every time Dad quietly stocked the kitchen with crackers, ginger tea, and the weird sour candy she suddenly loved.
Sandra had stopped calling after Rachel warned her formally.
Linda Parker still posted vague quotes about “family values,” but nobody cared as much anymore.
The world had found newer drama.
Ours stayed in the house with us.
On my last night, Mia knocked on my bedroom door.
I was folding a sweatshirt.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
She stepped inside holding a small box.
“I got you something.”
I stared at it.
“Mia.”
“It’s not big.”
I took it carefully.
Inside was a keychain shaped like a tiny compass.
The back was engraved.
Go become yourself.
My throat tightened.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
She stood awkwardly.
“I wanted to.”
I sat on the bed.
She sat beside me, leaving space between us.
“I keep thinking about seventh grade,” she said.
“When you cut your own bangs?”
She groaned.
“Don’t remind me.”
“You looked like a haunted mushroom.”
She laughed.
Then cried.
I sighed.
“You can’t laugh and cry at everything.”
“I’m pregnant. Watch me.”
I smiled despite myself.
The quiet after that felt soft.
She touched the edge of my blanket.
“I wish I could go back.”
“I know.”
“I would tell you before anything happened.”
“That would help.”
“I would tell Ethan to go to therapy instead of kissing me.”
“That would help more.”
She laughed again, then wiped her face.
“I don’t expect us to be best friends.”
I looked at her.
“Good.”
“But I hope someday, when it doesn’t hurt so much, you can think of me and remember more than the worst thing I did.”
That one landed deep.
Because I already did.
I remembered late-night fries.
Shared secrets.
Her standing outside my house after my mom left, holding a backpack and saying, “I’m sleeping here, obviously.”
I remembered all of it.
That was why betrayal hurt so much.
“I remember everything,” I said.
Her lips trembled.
“I’m sorry.”
This time, I did not tell her to stop.
“I know.”
The next morning, Dad loaded the car.
Mia stood on the porch in pajama pants, crying before anyone hugged her.
Dad hugged her first.
“You call if you need anything,” he said.
She nodded.
“I will.”
“Not for drama. For real need.”
She gave a watery laugh.
“Yes, sir.”
Then she turned to me.
For a second, we just looked at each other.
Then she opened her arms a little.
Not demanding.
Asking.
I stepped into them.
She held me carefully, like she knew she had lost the right to hold me tightly.
“Go be brilliant,” she whispered.
“Take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
“And the baby.”
Her breath caught.
“I will.”
I got in the car before I could change my mind about leaving.
As we drove away, I watched Mia in the mirror until she became a small shape on the porch.
Then she disappeared.
College did not magically fix me.
The first week, I cried in a bathroom because two girls in my dorm were laughing together the way Mia and I used to.
The second week, Ethan emailed me a long apology.
I deleted it.
The third week, I joined a campus legal aid club and realized I could still care about people without letting them consume me.
Dad called every Sunday.
Mia texted only when necessary.
Doctor update. Baby healthy.
Court app meeting changed.
Your dad left soup outside my door like a delivery angel.
I replied politely.
Then, in October, she sent an ultrasound picture.
It’s a girl.
I stared at the tiny profile on my screen.
A baby girl.
Innocent.
Unaware of the mess that made her.
I typed three different replies.
Deleted them all.
Finally, I wrote:
She’s beautiful.
Mia replied:
I want to name her Hope, but I’m scared it sounds too on the nose.
I smiled.
Sometimes on the nose is okay.
Months passed.
I grew.
Not all at once.
In pieces.
I made new friends.
I stopped checking Ethan’s profile.
I passed my first semester with grades that made Dad brag to customers at the shop.
Then, one snowy night in December, Dad called me at 2:14 a.m.
My heart seized.
“What happened?”
His voice was breathless.
“Mia’s in labor.”
“She’s not due yet.”
“I know.”
Fear shot through me.
“Is she okay?”
“They’re at the hospital. Baby’s coming early.”
I was already getting dressed.
Dad said, “Ava, you don’t have to come.”
May you like
I grabbed my keys.
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
