Unwritten Daughter — The Boathouse Life

Just us. Spa, terrible movies, that greasy diner you pretend you hate. Since I was nine, one day a week had belonged to me. She used to write down everything I said.

Every color, every song, every stupid opinion. That's how she knew about the indigo. I'm busy, she said, already walking. I asked her twelve times over three months.

I have the count in my phone, because I'm the kind of broken that keeps receipts. Then she stopped answering at all. Month two, I gave up on my brothers. Declan, who taught me to fight dirty, who let me sleep on his floor after nightmares,

physically moved me out of a doorway with two hands on my shoulders. like furniture and kept walking month three my training stopped when i asked why he looked at the floor and said orders miss hale miss hale he'd called me renny since i was six month four i found the boathouse on the north edge of the territory one room a wood stove a window that

looks at nothing but water i swept it out dragged a mattress in stole a kettle from a pantry nobody but even for a therese let's see how long it takes them to notice spoiler i lived there eight months eight months nobody knocked on my bedroom door in the main house nobody wondered why my closet emptied one hanger at a time the night i broke was the night of the alliance dinner i put on

green dress i sat down at the table my father raised his glass and said to my children asher