Chapter 3: The Forgotten Daughter’s Choice

So, I really should leave.

The thought echoed in my head, calm and cold. It sounded like freedom, and loss, and a final answer all at once.

After the SATs, I’d immediately asked the family for their opinion—where should I go to college?

I’d lined up the brochures on the kitchen table, waiting for someone—anyone—to help me choose. But they were always too distracted, or Aubrey was having a crisis.

They all wanted me to stay in Maple Heights, since there was a good state university right here. That way I’d be close to home, could visit often, and it would be convenient for them to see me.

Mom raved about the campus, Dad liked the tuition, and Derek said he’d help me move in. It felt safe, familiar.

That was my first choice too.

Part of me craved the comfort of home, even if it meant staying in their shadows.

But now…

That hope flickered out, replaced by something sharper and lonelier.

I stared at the application form, my finger hovering over the mouse, frozen for a long time.

The cursor blinked, waiting for me to make a choice. But for once, no one was telling me what to do.

Until the phone rang—my mom was calling.

The shrill ringtone startled me. I wiped my eyes, straightened my shoulders, and answered, bracing myself for whatever she’d say.

I picked up and heard her anxious voice: “Natalie, bring your sister’s pillow to the hospital. She’s scared of the pain and wants to hold her own pillow.”

Her tone was rushed, frazzled. I pictured her pacing Aubrey’s room, eyes scanning the mess for that one familiar comfort.

Aubrey’s pillow was special. Mom had sewn it by hand, with a bluebird embroidered on it. Every stitch was done by Mom herself. She said Aubrey loved to sing, and she hoped her daughter would be like a bluebird, always singing toward the sun.

The bluebird’s wings spread across the fabric, a patch of sky on a cloudy day. It looked so well-loved, the threads a little worn from years of clutching.

After I was brought home, Mom started sewing a pillow for me too. She said she would embroider a phoenix on mine, to symbolize rising from the ashes and leaving all past suffering behind.

She picked out the softest fabric, showed me the golden thread, made plans for the wings to span from edge to edge. It was supposed to be a new beginning.

But for some reason, that phoenix was never finished. Mom was either too busy with work, her eyes were too tired, or she was constantly interrupted by Aubrey, always putting the embroidery aside. Three years passed, and that phoenix pillow was still missing its wings, forgotten somewhere and gathering dust.

Sometimes I’d peek into her sewing basket, hoping to see progress. But it always looked the same: a blank, half-stitched shape, tucked beneath spare buttons and old receipts.