For three weeks, my mother repeated the same sentence whenever she saw me: “Don’t make any plans for Labor Day weekend.” She said it over the phone, at the grocery store, and even during Grandma Ida’s birthday dinner. Whenever I asked why, she smiled and replied, “Wait and see, Leah.” My younger sister, Shannon, and brother, Colin, were acting strangely too. They whispered whenever I entered the room, exchanged secretive messages, and quickly changed the subject whenever I approached. Even my eleven-year-old niece, Piper, nearly revealed something before Shannon hurried her away. For the first time in seven years, I felt hopeful. I thought my family might finally be planning something special for me.
My name is Leah Corwin. I was thirty-seven and owned a small bookkeeping business in Brookfield, Wisconsin. Seven years earlier, my father had died suddenly, and without anyone discussing it, I became the person responsible for keeping our family together. I handled insurance, bills, appointments, repairs, and everyone’s taxes. Whenever something went wrong, everyone turned toward me. “Leah will handle it.” Nobody ever asked whether I wanted to. I had become so dependable that my family no longer seemed to see me as a person. They saw me as a machine that never stopped working.
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