Chapter 6: The Weight of Goodbye

When I got home, I knocked on Mrs. Whitman's door.

I hesitated in the hallway, suitcase in hand, rehearsing what I’d say. The door was open just a crack, the faint scent of her favorite vanilla candle drifting out.

After living at the Whitman house for so many years, emotionally and logically, I should say goodbye to her.

I owed her that much, at least. She’d been a mother to me, in her own way.

When she heard I was going to work in Chicago, she hesitated and asked:

"Chicago? Then what about your engagement with Derek..."

Her voice was soft, but I could hear the worry behind it. She wanted to keep me here—out of love, or habit, or maybe just fear of change.

"A childhood joke, it doesn't count."

I said it with a small smile, trying to ease her mind. The truth was, it had never counted—not to Derek, not to anyone but her and me.

Hearing this, Mrs. Whitman pretended to complain, but her face showed a look of relief.

She let out a long sigh, shoulders relaxing. For the first time, I saw acceptance there.

"Child, why didn't you tell the family about such a big decision?"

She fussed with the sleeve of her cardigan, as if she could smooth out the years between us.

"But since you've decided, do as you wish. You're both grown up now, and I can't interfere in your feelings."

Her voice cracked a little. I realized she was letting go, too.

"When are you leaving?"

Looking at Mrs. Whitman, a wave of bitterness rose in my heart.

Not for anyone else, but for my former self.

I remembered the little girl who’d longed for a real family, who’d believed in promises that were never hers to keep.

"Tomorrow morning."

The words sounded final, heavy in the quiet room.

"So soon?"

Her surprise was genuine. She looked at the calendar on her phone, then back at me, eyes wide.

This time, Mrs. Whitman was truly a little shocked.

I could tell she hadn’t expected me to leave so soon. It was always easier to imagine things would stay the same.

Because tomorrow is her birthday.

A fact I knew better than anyone. I’d spent weeks planning, every year—balloons, cakes, the works.

And every year on her birthday, I would prepare a surprise for her and cook a whole table of dishes myself.

She’d laugh, hug me tight, say it was the best birthday ever. I’d watch Derek from the corner, wondering if he even noticed.

Mrs. Whitman would always hug me and tease:

"My daughter-in-law is still the most thoughtful. That brat Derek has never cooked for me."

It was her favorite joke. I used to blush, but now I just smiled politely.

I paused, then continued:

"I won't attend your birthday party tomorrow."

The words felt strange on my tongue, like breaking a tradition that had once meant everything to me.

"So as not to let others get the wrong idea."

We both knew what that meant. With me gone, there’d be no more whispered questions, no more sidelong glances from Mrs. Carmichael.

As for what others might misunderstand, both Mrs. Whitman and I knew very well.

She looked away, blinking fast. Maybe she was grateful, or maybe she just didn’t know what to say.

She also realized this, her expression complicated, hesitating for a long time without speaking.

I waited, giving her time, but the silence stretched on. At last, she nodded, accepting my choice.

I wanted to hug her, to say thank you for every kindness—but the words stuck. Instead, I just squeezed her hand, hoping she’d understand.

I took her silence as agreement.