Chapter 9
Senior year began with a question from my art teacher.
“Would you consider applying to college for illustration?”
I almost told her I wasn’t good enough. Instead, I showed her the portfolio from the summer program.
She turned through the pages slowly.
“Yes,” she said. “I think you should.”
At home, Dad cleared one end of the dining table for applications. He didn’t ask if I would live nearby. He asked what each school offered and whether I could picture myself there.
Sometimes I still expected him to say I was selfish for wanting to go away. He never did.
Tara honored my request for no more letters. She worked through the separation with Dad and kept her distance from me.
That distance helped.
By October, I could walk into our house without checking whether her car was outside. Mom’s photographs stayed on the walls. The drawing desk stayed by my window.
One afternoon, Denise called Dad. She had found another box while cleaning her basement. Tara had left it there the previous year.
Dad told me at once.
“Do you want to come with me?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Denise met us on the porch. The box held holiday decorations, some old family photographs, and a binder of Mom’s recipes. I opened it on the spot.
Mom had written little notes beside the instructions.
Marcus likes extra pepper.
Maya says the carrots are suspicious.
I laughed so suddenly that Denise smiled.
“We made that soup last winter,” I told Dad. “You couldn’t find the recipe.”
“We improvised badly.”
Denise apologized again. I told her I was glad she had checked the box before giving it away.
When we got home, Dad and I made the soup properly. I added the carrots because I had grown up enough to admit Mom was right about them.
While it simmered, Dad handed me a letter from the school counselor. I had been invited to display my door drawings at a student arts night.
“I want to do it,” I said.
“I hoped you would.”
At the event, Elena stood near my work and told people what she liked about it. Priya traveled from the next town to see it. Dad came early and stayed until the last visitor left.
A woman stopped at the second drawing and asked whether the light was meant to show that everything was fixed.
“No,” I said. “It shows I can open the door when I’m ready.”
She nodded and thanked me.
I thought about that answer all the way home.
In December, Tara asked Dad if I would be willing to hear a final apology in person before their divorce was finished. He brought the request to me without arguing for it.
I thought for two days.
Then I agreed to meet her at the counselor’s office, with Dad waiting nearby. I wanted to say some things without the kitchen, my bedroom, or the fifty-dollar bill between us.
Tara looked nervous when I entered.
She apologized for accusing me of stealing. She named the search of my room, the art program call, and the boxes she had hidden. She didn’t say she had meant well.
“I kept treating your place in that house like it took something from mine,” she said. “It didn’t. I hurt you because I was jealous and afraid, and I chose to blame you.”
I listened.
“I needed Dad to believe me,” I said. “You knew that.”
“I did.”
“You made me afraid of losing my home.”
Tara’s eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry, Maya.”
I believed she was sorry. I also knew I could leave without promising anything.
“I hope you keep getting help,” I said. “I don’t want you in my life right now.”
She nodded.
When I left the office, Dad stood from his chair in the waiting room.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Sad,” I said. “But I said what I needed to say.”
We walked out together.
The divorce was finalized early in spring. Dad told me the news once, plainly, then asked if I wanted to get dinner. I did.
A week later, my first college acceptance arrived.
I read the letter standing in the doorway while Dad waited behind me.
I had earned a place in an illustration program, with enough aid to make it possible.
I turned to him.
“I got in.”
He took the letter, read it, and hugged me so tightly I laughed.
May you like
Then I cried against his shoulder.
I had spent so long being told I caused trouble by wanting things. Now the future I wanted was opening in front of me, and Dad was holding me while I stepped toward it.
