I didn’t write paragraphs this time. I wrote the truth. Mom had told me she needed time away from my daughter, so I had given her exactly that. I wasn’t going to apologize for spending Thanksgiving with people who actually wanted Hazel and me there, and I certainly wasn’t sending money for property taxes. I posted the message in our family group chat, turned my phone face down, and picked up Hazel. For once, I wasn’t going to argue my way back into a family gathering.

Nobody responded that night. But the following evening, while snow drifted past my apartment window, someone knocked. My father stood outside alone, his coat covered in white. He had driven six hours and was holding an envelope. “It’s the six thousand for the roof,” he said quietly. Then his expression changed. “And Kelsey, your mother didn’t write that birthday text.” I stared at him. Dad swallowed before telling me who had actually sent the message that made me believe my own mother didn’t want Hazel around.

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