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Dad, I said, and my voice came out all wrong, high and shaky and young in a way I hated. Dad, I\u2019m sorry. I wasn\u2019t thinking. I\u2019ll use my right hand. I promise I\u2019ll never. It\u2019s too late. He wasn\u2019t even looking at me anymore. He was looking at the table, at my homework, at the pencil marks I\u2019d made with my wrong hand.<\/p>\n
We\u2019ve tried everything. We\u2019ve given you 16 years, and you\u2019re still. He shook his head. We can\u2019t have this in our home anymore. It\u2019s not right. It\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n
I looked at Vanessa. I don\u2019t know why. Maybe I thought she\u2019d 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. \u201cBye, freak,\u201d she said, and she wiggled her fingers at me in this little wave that made me want to throw up.<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t remember packing the bag. I don\u2019t remember choosing what to take. I just remember standing on the front porch in my socks because I\u2019d forgotten my shoes, holding a garbage bag full of whatever I\u2019d managed to grab, watching my father close the door in my face. He didn\u2019t say goodbye. He didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n