Chapter One: The Geometry of Abandonment
Most people remember their eighth year as a blur of scraped knees and bicycle tires, but mine is etched in the clinical, fluorescent glare of Denver International Airport. Specifically, Gate C32. Even now, the scent of Cinnabon and jet fuel can trigger a cold sweat, a visceral echo of the day the world’s axis shifted.
I sat on a row of interconnected plastic chairs, my legs dangling several inches above the carpeted floor. My fingers were threaded through the worn ears of Barnaby, my stuffed bunny, and my purple backpack felt like an anchor I wasn’t allowed to drop. Beside me stood my mother, her eyes darting toward the departures board with a feverish intensity I didn’t yet understand.
“Stay right here, Leah,” she whispered, her voice brittle. “I need to grab a caffeinated refuge. Calvin is taking the kids to find a restroom. Do not move from this spot.”
Calvin, her new husband, didn’t look at me. He was busy corralling Kylie and Noah, his biological children, who had spent the morning whispering about Hawaiian sand and hotel pools—a future I thought I was part of. I had spent the previous night meticulously folding my sun dresses, my heart hammering with the thrill of our first “real” family vacation.
