“I’m eighteen now,” she said softly, almost like a ritualistic proclamation. “Legally an adult.”
“Of course,” I smiled warmly, my heart swelling with pride. “I know, sweetheart.”
But her lips remained pressed together, a sign that the conversation wasn’t over.
“That means… things are changing,” she said, her voice somber. “And you… YOU NEED TO PACK YOUR THINGS!”
I froze so completely I could hear the old ceiling fan clicking as it turned.
“Pack my things?” I repeated, because sometimes your brain needs to say the words out loud before it can accept them. “Miranda, what are you talking about?”
She didn’t step into the room. She stayed in the doorway like she was afraid the carpet might pull her under. Her fingers curled around the doorframe so tightly her knuckles went pale.
“You heard me,” she said. Her voice was steady—but her eyes weren’t. Her eyes looked… wet, like she’d been holding her breath for a long time. “You need to pack your things.”
My first instinct was ridiculous. I thought she was joking. A prank. Something from the internet teenagers dared each other to do.
