My mother, meanwhile, was silent. I heard from mutual friends that she’d been shocked into introspection by our sudden departure and the subsequent legal notice.

Brittany, always the mediator, tried to reach out, but her efforts to bridge the gap were met with polite indifference from me. I needed space to heal, and more importantly, I needed to protect Hannah.

One afternoon, as Hannah and I were making cookies in our tiny kitchen, my phone buzzed. It was a text from my mother. “I’m sorry,” it read. “Can we talk?”