Page 49 of Haunt Me

The afternoon dissolved into flour, glitter, construction paper, and far too much hot chocolate. We mixed salt dough in an old ceramic bowl we'd found in one of the cabinets, cut stars and angels with cookie cutters, and baked them while Christmas music crackled through an old radio on the kitchen counter.

The first batch burned because we were dancing instead of watching the oven. She insisted they were artistically toasted. The second batch turned out better.

By evening, flour dusted every countertop, glitter clung stubbornly to my sweater, and there was red and green paint on both of our hands.

Our tree leaned slightly to the left beneath the weight of handmade ornaments that were lopsided, cracked, and absolutely perfect.

We stood back to admire it. She slipped an arm around my shoulders and smiled.

"There," she said quietly. "Now it feels like Christmas."

I wasn’t supposed to bring any of them home.

Our brownstone had a professional decorator who came every December with color-coded bins and a design plan approved months in advance. Everything was white and gold and never a single handmade thing in sight. My mother called it cohesive. I never had the vocabulary as a kid to explain why the word made something in me deflate every time she said it.

The night before we left the cabin, I packed my ornaments in a shoebox, terrified my mother would see them and decide they were clutter. Something that didn’t belong in a house built around magazine-worthy restraint. She never asked what was in the box. Actually, I don’t think she ever noticed I’d made anything at all.

I kept them hidden for thirteen years because some part of me understood, even at ten, that they’d only survive if no one important ever saw them.

Rewrapping the ornaments, I carefully place the box between two sweaters in my suitcase.

That settles it.

I’m going to Ashbourne.

I’ve been telling myself I haven’t chosen a destination, that I’m simply leaving and will figure out the rest once I’m far enough away. But that’s a lie. I knew where I was going the moment I pulled the suitcase from the closet.

A sheet of stationery waits at my desk for several minutes before I trust myself to write anything on it. There are no words that can explain this without hurting them. But I write anyway.

Mom and Dad,

I’m safe.

That’s the first thing they need to know.

I know you won’t understand why I’m doing this, and I’m sorry for the pain it’ll cause. I love you both. I know how much you’ve sacrificed for me, and I know every plan you made came from wanting me to have a good life.

My eyes burn. Blinking hard enough brings the words back into focus.

But I can’t keep living a life that doesn’t feel like mine.

I’m not going to law school.

My hand shakes as I write it. There it is. The sentence I’ve been too afraid to say aloud.

I’m not marrying Graham.

A tear lands near his name, smudging the ink. I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand and keep writing.

Please don’t blame him. He didn’t do anything wrong. Neither did you.

I need time to understand who I am when no one else is deciding for me.

Please don’t come looking for me. I’ll contact you when I’m ready.

I love you both.

~Astra