We had just gotten off the phone with Mom and Dad. The conversation had been a messy, beautiful blur of tears and heavy exhales. Hearing their voices—actually hearing them without a guard hovering over my shoulder—felt like a tether pulling me back to the girl I used to be. They were so happy, crying into the receiver, telling me they’d been praying every single day. I promised them I’d make a trip to see them as soon as the legal dust cleared. I still couldn’t find it in me to ask Mom why she’d ignored me when the abuse first started; the hurt was still there, a dull ache beneath the surface, but I didn't want to ruin the first pure moment we’d had in years.
A sharp knock at the door startled us both. Jasmine stood up and peered through the peephole, her shoulders relaxing instantly.
"I
