Page 36 of Bitter Truths

“I’ll try,” I say.

We drive back to the cottage in silence. Mom makes lunch that I pick at. She reorganizes the kitchen cabinets. She calls Dad and gives him updates in hushed tones while I sit on the porch and stare at trees that stretch as far as I can see.

One. Two. Three. Four.

I count the pine trees on the nearest ridge. Numbers don’t have faces. Numbers don’t kiss you like they mean it and then abandon you when a better opportunity comes along. Numbers are simple.

Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.

The counting gives me a way to fill the void. All the places where their laughter used to live. All the corners where I kept cherished daydreams about our future together.

Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five.

Mom’s voice drifts from inside, muffled words I don’t try to understand.

Forty-one. Forty-two. Forty-three.

Just numbers. Just trees. Just breathing in and out until the sun goes down and I can sleep and forget for a few hours.

That evening, Mom sits beside me on the porch swing, a cup of tea growing cold in her hands.

“I’m leaving in the morning,” she says quietly.

I knew this was coming, but the thought of being all by myself terrifies me.

Not that I will admit it.

“Winston...” She stops and shakes her head. “He’s so worried about you. I haven’t told him everything, but he knows you’re not well.”

Winnie. My throat squeezes, and I force the urge to cry away.

“He wants to talk to you. He’s been asking⁠—”

There’s no way I can face my brother yet.

“I’m not ready.”

Her face falls a little, but she nods. “I know, honey. I told him that,” she assures me, reaching up to smooth my hair back from my face. “But when you are...”

“Okay.”

She fidgets. “I could come back on weekends if you want. Just until you’re more settled.”

“No,” I say, a little too quickly. “I need to do this alone.”

“Okay, honey. If you change your mind…”

“Thank you,” I manage.

“I love you, Bianca. More than you know. And this...” She gestures at the cottage, the mountains, the little life she’s built for me like a safety net. “This isn’t forever. This is just until you’re strong enough to come home.”

But I don’t think I’ll ever be strong enough. I don’t think I’ll ever want to go home to a place where they feel like a boogeyman I’ll run into around every corner.

Home no longer exists.

“I know,” I say anyway.

That night, I lie in the lavender-scented bed and listen to Mom packing in the next room. The rustle of clothes, the zip of suitcases, the quiet sounds of a mother preparing to leave her fragile daughter behind.