**Part 3**
Afterward, Mom followed me into the corridor.
“Can we start over?”
I faced her.
“Which summer do you want to start with?”
She couldn’t answer.
One year later, I purchased a lakeside cottage for Aunt June. We spent July there with her grandchildren, grilling outdoors and debating over card games.
One evening, she showed me an old photograph.
I was fifteen, standing beside her garage with an inexpensive laptop and a crooked grin.
“You looked happy,” she said.
“I was.”
The realization surprised me.
For years, I believed my parents had robbed me of nine summers.
But they hadn’t.
They’d given me nine summers beside the only adult who taught me I deserved to be chosen.
My parents still had no idea where I lived.
This time, I wasn’t hiding.
They simply no longer deserved access to my life.
