Dad, I said, and my voice came out all wrong, high and shaky and young in a way I hated. Dad, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll use my right hand. I promise I’ll never. It’s too late. He wasn’t even looking at me anymore. He was looking at the table, at my homework, at the pencil marks I’d made with my wrong hand.

We’ve tried everything. We’ve given you 16 years, and you’re still. He shook his head. We can’t have this in our home anymore. It’s not right. It’s not natural. My mother came back with a garbage bag, black plastic, the kind we used for yard waste. She held it out to me without meeting my eyes. You have 10 minutes, she said. Take what you can carry.

I looked at Vanessa. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought she’d say something, do something, show some tiny sign that she understood this was insane, but she was just sitting there with her chin propped on her hand, watching me like I was a TV show she was really enjoying. “Bye, freak,” she said, and she wiggled her fingers at me in this little wave that made me want to throw up.

I don’t remember packing the bag. I don’t remember choosing what to take. I just remember standing on the front porch in my socks because I’d forgotten my shoes, holding a garbage bag full of whatever I’d managed to grab, watching my father close the door in my face. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t say anything.