Twice, Luna They Left Behind Chapter 10

Twice, Luna They Left Behind Chapter 10

By the end of my first semester as a freshman, a heavy snow had fallen over Washington, D.C.

I was walking back from the library when the campus mailroom called.

“Lydia, we’ve got a large express package for you—same-city rush delivery.”

I went over and signed for it. It was a big cardboard box.

Back in my dorm, I cut the packing tape with a utility knife. Inside, several smaller boxes were arranged with precision.

On top sat a blue folder.

I opened it. Inside was a unilaterally signed family separation statement.

It held no real legal weight, but Dad had stamped it with his personal seal.

Next to it lay a bank card and a note.

[The PIN is your birthday. This is yours. The education fund you should have had from the start. All of it.]

[Plus what we owe you for your hand. For everything we didn’t do. I know you don’t want to see us. I understand. This is all we have left to give. It doesn’t fix anything. I know that.]

The handwriting was firm, but heavy with exhaustion.

—

I set the folder down and kept going.

Underneath was a thick photo album. I opened it.

It was filled with photos of me, from childhood on up. Some had been gathered from relatives. Others were shots of the school honor boards.

On every page, my mom had crammed handwritten notes in the margins.

[Lydia, five. Won her first art competition. Brought home a ribbon and didn’t take it off for a week.]

[Lydia, ten. Had a fever of a hundred and two. Still insisted on going to school for the exam.]

The years they had been absent, they were now trying to piece together in this clumsy, frantic way.

At the very bottom of the box was a small velvet case.

I opened it.

Inside was a custom-made galaxy necklace.

A card in Mom’s handwriting was tucked beside it: [You loved the stars when you were little. I should’ve remembered sooner. This should’ve been yours ten years ago. I’m sorry.]

I looked at the necklace.

It was beautiful. The diamonds glittered cold and sharp under my desk lamp.

—

I sat still for a moment.

There was no swell of emotion. No sadness. Just a complicated, sour ache—the quiet weight of finally being seen by people I no longer needed.

I set the necklace back in its case, placed it with the album, and stored them deep inside my closet.

I wouldn’t throw them away on purpose. But I would never pull them out to look at them again, either.

The bank card, I put in my wallet.

The next day I went to the bank. I donated half the sum to the Blackthorn Fire Department’s Family Foundation under an anonymous donor listing. The rest, I kept for my tuition and future study abroad.

It was what I was owed.

I walked out of the bank.

Winter sunlight blazed off the snow, refracting into a thousand sharp points of light. I pulled in a deep lungful of the cold air.

My body felt lighter than it had in years.

My phone buzzed.

A message from my advisor: [Lydia, your peer-reviewed journal paper passed review. The research group is celebrating tonight—you in?]

My left thumb moved with easy precision as I typed back. [I’m in.]

—

I pocketed my phone and tucked my hands into the pockets of my coat, walking back toward campus.

Behind me, a single trail of resolute footprints cut through the snow.

I’d finally, completely, walked out of that fire.