My head started to hurt only thirty minutes into the four hour long drive to Laura's place in the neighbourhood of Elmwood, Rhode Island, just outside Providence. That's when I concluded that the miserable few hours ahead were going to be more unbearable than I thought. Luckily, the sound of the tires on the asphalt and the movement of the car lulled me to sleep within an hour and a half, and when I woke up, we'd reached our destination.

When we pull up and park on the curb just outside the house, I note that it's unwelcoming from the outside. The paneling is an odd, off-white colour, and the wooden stairs look rickety. But of course, I can't be picky. Not when this house has intact windows that don't seem to give the impression that they'd let in a draft, unlike the place I last remember living in with her all those years ago.

"Come along, Evelyn," Diaz says as she takes the key out of the ignition and the engine dies.

"Aren't you supposed to help me out with this transition? You know, be supportive and patient at least?" I ask her, staring at her through the rearview mirror. My voice is slightly raspy from the amount I've cried in the last two days. I've decided that that has been enough tears to last me a lifetime and I won't cry in front of Laura. I bet she'll want me to open up to her, be vulnerable, but I won't do it. That would feel like giving in, and I'm not ready to accept this reality.

Diaz raises her eyebrows. "I thought you'd like to get out of the car by now, stretch your legs at least?"

"Why would I want to get out when we're outside the house that belongs to the woman who ruined my life?"

"The judge decided that this is the place best suited for you," she says, and I audibly groan and roll my eyes. She doesn't even acknowledge it. "I understand that you don't agree with that decision, but keep an open mind, Evelyn. It may turn out to be better than you think."

"I might not be here for as long as you think," I say under my breath as I open the car door.

"Leave your things," she says when I lean in to grab one of the boxes stuffed in the backseat. "We can go inside and meet Laura and come back for it after. It's not going anywhere."

"I've actually already met her, I thought you knew that," I remark sassily.

Diaz ignores me and walks up to the house. Her heels, just as I expected, creak on every stair leading up to the door. I hold the railing as I trail behind her, my knees having suddenly started shaking. Before she can even knock on the white panelled door, it swings open and standing there is the woman whom I've dreaded to see, especially since our unfortunate encounter at the courthouse.

I might be dramatic, but the sight of her standing there with a wide smile on her face makes me feel sick.

"Evelyn, I thought you'd never get here! I've been waiting around anxiously since I woke up," Laura says.

I bite my tongue to keep from telling her that I, on the other hand, wish I hadn't ever gotten here. That I have been crying since I woke up, packed all my things into a car, got torn away from my family, cried some more until I had no tears left, and slept off a painful headache. I'll have plenty of time to express my resentment at being sent here after Diaz has left, after all.

"Hi," I say flatly, not returning the smile.

"Please, both of you, come in." She steps aside and I let Diaz go in ahead of me, Laura's happy demeanour never faltering. "We can go to the living room."

I don't bother taking my shoes off at the door, although there is a shoe rack next to it, nice and neat. That's something I immediately notice about the inside of the house: The neatness. It's so clean I might even call it pristine. The open floor plan displays the kitchen to the left, the countertop expertly organized down to where each coffee mug should be kept, and the living room on the right, with each throw pillow on the white fabric sofa not having been thrown at all but meticulously placed.

My immediate thought is that this is an act. She must have cleaned the place from top to bottom only to prepare for having a social worker in her house. Maybe she even hired someone to do it for her. As soon as Diaz leaves, Laura will kick her feet up onto the dark oak coffee table, or I'll open a cupboard door and the mess she hid will come tumbling out like with any kid trying to clean their room before their mom comes home.

"Take a seat, make yourself at home," Laura says, sitting in the middle of the couch.

She can't expect me to "make myself at home" so easily. I decide to sit stiffly in a white armchair that matches the couch, across the room as far away from her as I can get. Diaz sits in a second armchair to my right. I don't look up, but wipe the perspiration off my trembling hands onto my black jeans, then clasp them tightly in my lap.

"How are you, Evelyn?" Laura asks, crossing one leg over the other, an innocently curious tone in her voice.

I purse my lips and close my eyes for a moment, willing myself not to explode on her. "Fine," I say finally.

She must at least have the sense to realize that she won't get much out of me right now, and turns to Ms. Diaz. The two start talking about the legal stuff. The last time I witnessed a conversation of the sort, I was too young to understand what it was all about. I sat quietly and listened, head turning back and forth between the two adults who insisted they had my best interests at heart but kept exhibiting the exact opposite. I resumed this role now because, whether I'm eight years old or sixteen, it's completely out of my control.

Diaz said she would come around to check up on me one month from now. Laura said that wouldn't be a problem. It brought a flood of memories rushing back to me, from the time Mr. Johnson said it wouldn't be a problem, to the time one month later when he shoved empty beer bottles under the couch with his foot and grabbed my arm roughly which would leave deep purple marks, making it known that I was to sit and look pretty when the social worker showed up to see how I was doing. I was to tell them just what they wanted to hear; not the truth, but what would make everyone's job easier and me less of a burden.

• • •

My room is through the last door on the right on the second floor. I don't like how the stairs creak, or how it's an old house so I have to push my bedroom door hard to get it to close properly, or how the faucet squeaks when I turn on the water. All these little noises make me flinch, like Laura might suddenly yell at me for being too loud. But she hasn't yet given any signs of still being her unpredictable, explosive, always-on-edge self that haunts my earliest childhood memories.

Ms. Diaz left as soon as we'd brought all the boxes up to my room. When I saw Laura, who insisted on helping, going for the one that I knew to contain everything Em has ever given me, I shoved past her without feeling sorry and brought it in the house myself. It's not that I think she'd contaminate the contents inside, I just don't trust her. She broke the naive trust that any child feels towards their parents when they're the only one the kid can turn to a long time ago, and replaced it with fear. I'm not sure what the breaking point was exactly, maybe the first time she threw something at me for making too much noise which taught me to keep my footsteps light, or the first time in my memory that she yelled at me when I went to her for help, telling me to solve my own damn problems, which taught me it's always best to bottle things up or else there will be consequences.

Spotting her now in my doorway, I feel that same childish fear bubble up inside me. Unlike back then, when I was powerless to stop her, had nowhere to run to or anyone else to turn to, I should have nothing to be afraid of anymore.

"Can I sit?" she asks, gesturing to the end of my bed. I'm leaning against the backboard, hugging a pillow tightly and, until she spoke up, I was staring at the white wall across from my bed, feeling numb.

"I guess so," I say, throwing the pillow aside. It's the only thing I bothered to unpack thus far. The mattress we're sitting on— that I can't help but admit is pretty comfortable— is bare.

"Do you want some help unpacking?" she asks.

"No."

She clasps and unclasps her hands in her lap, over and over, the way I always do when I'm nervous. I wonder, I've already swallowed my fear of her, but is she afraid of me? The way she's looking at me, apprehension and uncertainty clear on her face, further suggests that she is.

She sighs. "I know it'll probably take a long time for you to open up to me— and I understand why— but I want you to know, Evelyn, I really am glad you're here."

"I don't think you do understand," I say, trying to keep my voice level, but desperately wanting to yell and scream at her. I want to throw things across the room, at her, but I ball my shaking hands into fists. I want her to know how much she hurt me, how she took a little, innocent girl, and forced her I grow up too fast. I want her to hurt as I had.

"You're probably right," she says quietly. She won't meet my eyes and I hope the thing holding her head down is shame.

"What is this?" I ask suddenly.

"What?"

"The way you're talking to me, the way the house is all nice. What are you trying to do?"

She closes her eyes and when she opens them again, finally looking at me, I notice how similar they are to mine. "I'm trying to make things better."

I shake my head. "Well, stop. You ruined my life and I can't just forgive you because you gave me a nice bed to sleep in."

"I never wanted to. I didn't want to turn out like my parents and fail you. I wanted to be able to give you everything you wanted and I just couldn't do it. I was too young and I made bad decisions." She stops to take a breath, and when she speaks again her voice is shaking. "I just wanted to be a good mom and I couldn't."

"You stopped being my mom a long time ago, Laura."

She sits there stunned for a few seconds, but then tears well in her eyes. I catch one run down her face before she's turned away and left my room swiftly. She tried to close my door on her way out, but it stopped short and I watch as it starts swinging back open lazily.

I hurt her and it doesn't feel as good as I thought it would.