On the morning of Emily’s wedding, the house buzzed with hairspray, flowers, and forced laughter. I carried my suitcase downstairs just as my mother adjusted her earrings in the hallway mirror.
She turned, saw the bag, and laughed. “You will never make it past the Canadian border with that life.”
My father said, “Let her go. She’ll be back in a week.” Emily didn’t even come out of the bridal suite.
I walked out anyway.
At the airport, I was shaking so badly I could barely hand over my passport. The line behind me felt endless. My chest locked. My vision blurred. Then the officer checked my documents, stamped them, and waved me through.
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