The quiet click of the front door closing behind me felt less like an exit and more like dropping heavy armor I had carried for thirty-four years.
Standing on the porch of my mother’s house, I breathed in the sharp autumn air. The morning frost lingered on the dry grass, glittering like tiny diamonds in the early light. My shoulders felt lighter. The constant, suffocating paranoia that had hummed beneath my skin ever since the hospital room dissolved into nothing. My phone…