Chapter 19
Sarah
I packed my entire life into three suitcases in forty-eight hours.
Most of what I owned was garbage anyway—thrift store furniture that had been falling apart before I’d dragged it off the curb, dishes with chips in them, clothes that had seen better years.
The landlord could keep it all. I just took what mattered: my mother’s jewelry box, Colin’s old school photos, the speech therapy textbooks I’d been studying for years.
And one drawing Lily made months ago—a ballerina with stars around her head that I’d kept folded in my nightstand drawer.
I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.
Delia showed up on my last morning in the city, carrying coffee and bagels.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said, setting the food down like she could anchor me in place. “You could stay. Find a different job. Give him time to cool off.”
“He told me to leave.”
“He was angry. People say things when they’re angry.”
“He meant it.” I zipped my suitcase closed with more force than necessary, like I could seal the truth inside with my clothes. “You should have seen his face, Delia. He looked at me like I’d killed her myself.”
“You didn’t kill anyone.”
“But my father did.” I sat down on the edge of my mattress, suddenly exhausted. “And I lied about it. How is he supposed to forgive that?”
Delia didn’t have an answer for that. She just sat beside me and put her arm around my shoulders while I cried into my coffee.
“London will be good for you,” she said eventually, though her voice wavered like she didn’t fully believe it. “Fresh start. New opportunities. All that optimistic bullshit people say when they don’t know what else to offer.”
I laughed despite everything. “Very inspiring.”
“I try.” She squeezed my shoulder. “But seriously, Sarah—don’t disappear on me. Call. Text. Send me pictures of boring British things. I need to know you’re okay.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
We hugged goodbye at the door, and I tried not to think about how everyone I cared about kept getting left behind—or how I kept being the one to leave.
Colin met me at Heathrow looking exactly like I remembered: messy dark hair that never stayed where he put it, wearing a jacket that was too thin for the weather because he always forgot London was colder than he thought.
“There’s my favorite sister,” he said, pulling me into a hug that lifted me off my feet.
“I’m your only sister.”
“Details.” He grabbed one of my suitcases. “Come on, the flat’s about thirty minutes by tube. Fair warning though—it’s tiny. Like really tiny. You know those jokes about London apartments being the size of shoeboxes? This one might actually be a shoebox. For kids.”
“As long as it has a bed and a door that locks, I don’t care.”
He glanced at me sideways as we headed toward the underground. His voice lost the teasing edge. “What happened in New York?”
“Long story.”
“I’ve got thirty minutes.”
I told him an edited version on the train—the safe version, the one that didn’t involve heartbreak or betrayal—left out the part about Hector, focused on needing a change and wanting to finally get certified.
Colin listened without interrupting, which meant he knew I was lying but was letting me have it.
“Well,” he said when I finished, “whatever the real reason is, I’m glad you’re here. Been weird being in London alone. Nice to have family around again.”
Something in my chest loosened slightly. “Yeah. Nice.”
The flat really was tiny—a studio with a Murphy bed, a kitchen that was more of a kitchenette, and a bathroom you could barely turn around in. But it had big windows that let in weak London sunlight, and it was mine, and that was enough.
Colin helped me unpack, chattering the whole time about his classes and his thesis and this girl in his study group who might be interested in him but he wasn’t sure. Normal sibling conversation that felt surreal after weeks of grief.
“So when’s your exam?” he asked, shoving my books onto a shelf.
“Next month. I’ve been studying but I should probably ramp it up.”
“You’ll pass. You’re the smartest person I know.”
“That’s not true.”
“Fine, second smartest. But only because my thesis advisor is literally a genius.” He grinned. “Either way, you’ve got this.”
I wanted to believe him, but wanting and believing had never been the same thing.
I took the certification exam on a rainy morning in a grey building that smelled like floor polish and anxiety.
Three hours of questions that blurred together—developmental milestones, treatment approaches, ethics scenarios—all of it a fog I hoped I’d navigated correctly. I walked out feeling like I’d either aced it or failed spectacularly with no middle ground.
The results came two weeks later via email while I was eating cereal in my underwear at noon.
I passed.
I stared at the screen for a full minute, rereading the words to make sure they were real. Then I called Colin and he screamed so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear.
“I knew it! I told you! You’re officially fancy now!”
“I don’t feel fancy.”
“Well you should. This is huge. We’re celebrating. I’m taking you to the pub.”
“It’s two in the afternoon.”
“So? You just became a certified speech therapist. That’s day-drinking worthy.”
We went to the pub. Colin bought me fish and chips and a beer I didn’t finish, and for a few hours I let myself feel proud instead of hollow.
The clinic was in Camden, sandwiched between a vintage clothing shop and a place that sold only tea—the kind of London detail that would’ve made Delia laugh.
I started the following Monday working with kids aged four to ten, most of them dealing with articulation disorders or stutters or selective mutism like Lily had. The work was good—challenging but rewarding, exactly what I’d always wanted.
Except everything reminded me of her.
A little girl with dark braids who loved to draw. A boy who went silent when he got overwhelmed. A parent asking if their daughter would ever speak normally again, and me having to explain that normal was relative but yes, with time and patience, she’d find her voice.
I thought about Lily constantly. Wondered if she was still dancing, still laughing, still using those full sentences she’d worked so hard to build. Wondered if she asked about me or if Hector had explained why I’d disappeared.
Wondered if she hated me too—and whether she should.
My phone rang one night. Gianna’s name flashed across the screen and my heart stopped.
“Sarah?” Gianna’s voice sounded hesitant. “Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Oh thank god. I wasn’t sure you’d answer.” She paused. “What happened? One day you were working here and the next you were just gone. Mr. Valdez won’t talk about it and Lily’s been—” She stopped. “Lily keeps asking for you.”
My eyes started burning. “Is she okay?”
“She’s okay. Physically. But she’s sad, Sarah. She doesn’t understand why you left.”
“What did Hector tell her?”
“That you had to move away for work. That it wasn’t her fault.” Another pause. “Was it about what happened at the ballet studio? Because Mr. Valdez has been different since you left. Quieter. Angry at things that don’t make sense.”
I pressed my free hand over my mouth to keep the sob in. “Just take care of them, okay? Both of them. Make sure Lily keeps dancing and Hector keeps cooking and they’re—” My voice broke. “Make sure they’re happy.”
“Sarah—”
“I have to go.”
“Wait—”
I hung up before she could say anything else, before I could hear about how much Lily missed me or how Hector was doing or any of the thousand details that would make this hurt worse.
Then I sat on my bathroom floor and cried until my throat was raw.
Weeks passed, and London settled into a routine I didn’t quite feel part of.
I learned which tube lines ran late, which coffee shops had the best pastries, which streets to avoid during tourist season.
I made friends at the clinic—other therapists who invited me to pub quizzes and weekend markets.
Colin dragged me to his university events and introduced me to his friends who were all brilliant and intimidating.
I built a life—or something that looked like one from the outside. Went to work, came home, read books, explored the city. Did all the things I’d dreamed about when I was in New York working three jobs and drowning in my father’s debt.
But it felt hollow. Like I was playing the part of someone who’d gotten what they wanted and forgot to feel grateful for it.
I thought about Hector every single day—the way he’d looked at me, the way he’d stopped looking at me.
Wondered if he still hated me or if time had softened his anger into something more manageable. Wondered if he’d found a new therapist for Lily or if he was managing on his own. If he ever thought about me at all or if I’d become just another person who’d disappointed him.
I told myself it was better this way. That they were healing without me dragging them back into grief.
That Lily needed stability, not the daughter of the man who’d killed her mother showing up to therapy sessions.
That Hector deserved to move forward without me as a constant reminder of everything he’d lost.
I told myself these things every night before bed, trying to make them feel true.
But the truth was simpler and more painful: I missed them so desperately it felt like dying, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.
Because I’d made my choice when I’d kept that secret.
And now I had to live with it—alone, and far too aware of what I’d lost.