My parents refused to care for my younger kids while I tended to my oldest with leukemia; I called my ex-husband, but he said: “You’re just a poor writer, deal with it”

the one good tree in our yard.

Neither boy had heard the conversation.

That was the only thing I cared about protecting.

I had protected it.

I went out the back door to push my sons.

They never came back.

There were messages in the family thread for a while.

My mother alternating between wounded and furious and wounded again.

Eventually, even that stopped.

I didn’t block anyone.

I didn’t delete the group.

I muted the notifications.

There is a difference between slamming a door and quietly stepping away from