Twenty-Three Days Until I Disappear From This Family Chapter 08

Twenty-Three Days Until I Disappear From This Family Chapter 08

Mila’s absence was like a dull knife, cutting deeper with every passing day.

Month one: Mom still caffed everyone she could.

Month three: She stopped. There was no way to contact that base.

Month six: Insomnia. The doctor called it anxiety-induced and prescribed sleeping pills.

She’d take one each night, lie awake, stare at the ceiling. Sometimes she’d get up and stand at the storage

room doorway.

She never let anyone close the door-as if keeping it open meant Mila might still walk through it.

Dad aged visibly. Half his hair gone white, his back stooped.

He rarely spoke, but one day at dinner he put down his fork and said, “I went through Mila’s photos from

when she was little. After Sophie came, she was never in a group picture again.”

“She was always there. The camera just never pointed at her.”

Mom didn’t answer. Tears fell into her plate.

George quit his job and reached out to every contact he had-defense contractors, research institutes, classified units. All he got was the same standard reply: “Information on classified personnel cannot be

disclosed.”

He found Mila’s college classmates. One of them answered his message.

“Are you Mila’s brother?”

“Do you know how she moved out on graduation day? Five cardboard boxes, sixth floor, no elevator. A few of us carried them up for her. Her boyfriend didn’t show. Her family didn’t show.”

“She sat in the stairwell and cried, then wiped her tears and kept going.”

“Where was your family? Where were you?”

He didn’t reply. He turned off his phone and sat in his apartment all night.

He remembered that day.

He didn’t help Mila move. He was busy helping Sophie pick out curtains.

Pink floral print. Her favorite.

Pierce was the slowest to crack, but when he did, he cracked deepest.

At first he thought Mila was just throwing a tantrum-she’d be back in a couple of days. A week. Two weeks. Amonth

Then he understood-she was serious.

He scrolled through their chat history.

In three years, he’d initiated fewer than twenty conversations. The longest was “You there?”

Mila’s messages to him would fill multiple screens. She’d share a screenshot of her paper acceptance; he’d reply “Nice.” She’d say she had a fever; he said “Drink more water.” She’d go three days without messaging

-he didn’t even notice.

He scrolled back to the photo he’d sent on their anniversary.

The lake. His hand on Sophie’s shoulder.

He’d sent that photo to his girlfriend. On their anniversary.

He deleted all his chats with Sophie. Deleted her photos.

Then he looked at his empty contact list and realized he had no way to reach Mila anymore.

He framed that university gate photo-the one under the ginkgo tree-and put it by his bed.

The girl in blue, smiling, eyes crinkled.

The words on the back: “First day with Pierce. I will always be happy.”

She’d never been happy.

He’d made that sentence a lie.

One rainy night, Pierce drove past a diner. Through the downpour, he saw the orange light inside. The sign said “Spicy Chili.”

She loved spicy. In winter, all she wanted was a bowl of hot chili with enough heat to make her nose sweat.

He parked and went in. Ordered a bowl.

The first bite was so hot it made him cry.

By the time he finished, the table was covered in crumpled tissues.

Not all of it was from the spice.