At seventeen, I was old enough to crave freedom but still afraid of quiet. When my family left for Canada without me, the house felt enormous—rooms echoing, clocks ticking loudly, nights stretching thin. They were supposed to be gone seven days. I worked mornings, came home to microwave dinners, and listened to the radio at night. On the seventh day, a postcard arrived. It was in my mother’s handwriting, cheerful, saying they stopped in Vermont to visit friends and would return two days late. I felt oddly relieved, as if the house had exhaled.

I carried the postcard, rereading it during breaks, anchoring myself in her words. When they finally returned, they looked tired but happy—until they saw my face. I teased them about extending the trip without calling, holding up the postcard. My father frowned; my siblings exchanged looks. My mother laughed, then stopped. She said they hadn’t sent anything. No postcard. No Vermont stop. They had driven straight back from Canada as planned.