There was a time in my life when the only stable thing was the land beneath my feet. Forty acres on Japatul Road, surrounded by the mountains and the Cleveland National Forest, a place that felt both sheltering and wild.
For years, we moved through that house like a small ecosystem, my mother, her fiancé, my sister, my brothers, and me, each of us orbiting the others, trying to keep some kind of rhythm.
And out of the blue, a few weeks into the 8th grade, we were yanked out of school by our mom, who felt like she was cutting a lifeline.
And then, right after I turned thirteen, the rhythm snapped.
My mother was arrested at my birthday party for abuse and there was a restraining order in place that seprated my stepdad and youngest brother from the household.put up against my stepdad.
It felt like everything fell in one loud, clattering drop, and suddenly I was the one holding the pieces steady long enough for the younger ones to breathe.
Thanksgiving became the turning point of my journey with this mom.
November 27th, 1997. I had planned on spending the holiday with my father’s family.
No one knew that I wasn’t thinking about coming back.
The night before, the house felt too still, like it was listening. I cooked anyway, stuffing, rolls, and pies as if pretending might keep the world from splitting open beneath us. I sliced the canned cranberry jelly into perfect rounds, laying them out the way my red-headed brother liked, a little ritual that made him feel seen. I still do it that way for him while he watches from heaven.
When it was time to settle the house for the night, I tucked each of my youngest brothers in the way I always did.
The second youngest wanted his bedtime story. His lashes fluttered as he tried to stay awake, hanging on to every word. I lingered for a little longer than I typically did when I kissed his forehead, memorizing him in the soft yellow light.
My older brother already had his Walkman on, mixtape spinning. I brushed his hair back, kissed the spot where I could see a glimpse of innocence, and stared for a moment at the empty bed across the room, the place where the youngest used to sleep before he was taken back by his father.
His bed represented one more echo. One more absence.
My sister was almost asleep when I got to our room, curled around her cat, breathing in that heavy, exhausted way children do when they’ve been holding too much. I reminded her about the turkey and the timing and the little things I always did. She nodded, eyes half-closed, trusting me without knowing I was leaving her behind.
I showered after everyone drifted off. Spending my first moment alone in days.
The steam fogged the mirror until my reflection disappeared, and for a second, I wondered if maybe that was easier—if disappearing entirely might hurt less than what was coming. I packed quietly: my poetry journal, peach lip gloss, the soft clothes that still felt like mine. I laid out my jeans and hoodie for the morning like it was any other school day we no longer had.
Before bed, a memory slipped in a softer tone.
My first visit to that house was in 1995.
My mother took my hand, pulling me toward the garden, proud in a way I didn’t see a woman displey often. “That there is Sunflower Hill,” she said.
The flowers stood impossibly tall, their heads tilted toward the sun as if they were in love with it. I remember thinking that nothing so beautiful could ever die.
But by the fall of ’97, the sunflowers were gone.
The soil had turned just like everything else, lifeless and restrained.
I remember crying that night until sleep finally dragged me into a calmer state.
I woke before the rooster. The house was silent in that strange, heavy way before a storm.
I started to cook the turkey I wouldn’t eat. Folded laundry I wouldn’t see worn. Cleaned up the house one last time.
I showed my siblings where everything was.
How long to heat the rolls, how to stir the gravy, when to check the pies.
They nodded like they always did, trusting me to steer the ship.
And I knew I was abandoning them.
When my father’s car finally crunched up the gravel, something inside me jolted fear, hope, guilt, all braided together so tightly I couldn’t separate them.
I hugged each of them goodbye without saying the word.
My sister’s shoulders stiffened like she knew more than she let on.
The boys clung to the morning like it was any other day.
I stepped outside and the air hit me cold.
The garden was bare.
Sunflower Hill was brown and broken.
I felt something inside me break to match it.
We drove west in silence, toward the ocean, country music humming low from the speakers. I stared out the window, swallowing the guilt like it was something I owed. My father didn’t push. He just drove, hands steady on the wheel, letting me exist next to him without having to say a single word.
By the time we reached Buena Vista Ave- the corner house where my grandparents lived, my stomach went hollow. The house glowed from the inside, silhouettes moving past the windows like a life I used to have.
Grandma opened the door before we even knocked. And in that moment, I felt home settle around me even if the home wasn’t mine.
“Oh, it’s our little girl,” she said, arms already open welcoming my embrace.
All I could feel was the echo of my life on Japatul Road, my siblings sitting around a table I set for them, waiting for a sister who no longer wanted to return.
We were five pieces of the same story once. And since then we scattered to experience war, sickness, dying from cancer, having children of our own, separate lives we built out of survival. We’ve loved one another from a distance for so long it almost feels like the only way we know how.
It seems to creep up on me, but when the season starts to shift and the days get shorter, I feel that ache again. The longing for what we were before everything collapsed, and that maybe, someday, we’ll share gratitude for the strength we cultivated in the wreckage.