Months later, she invited us to dinner.
I nearly said no because the word still brought back silverware above my head and Marcus’s voice moving through the basement ceiling.
Then my sister told me there would be no pressure and that I could leave whenever I wanted.
I went.
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She set an extra plate at her table, placed a glass of water beside it, and did not ask me to explain why I stared at the chair before sitting down.
When the evening was over, I buckled my baby into the car, drove back to my apartment, and unlocked my own front door.
It was the first time since the basement that I had truly visited family—and the first time no one else decided when I was allowed to come home.
