In the months after the Thunderbird vanished, the house grew colder, though no one mentioned the missing car. Her mother folded laundry in brittle silence, her father spoke only in instructions, and she moved like a ghost between rooms where her absence seemed more welcome than her presence. At school, she lied—said she’d sold the car to “upgrade,” swallowed the burn of humiliation when friends asked for a ride. Late at night, she’d stand at the window and imagine the Thunderbird parked outside, headlights glowing like two patient eyes waiting for her. Instead, the driveway stared back, bare and accusing. That emptiness burrowed into her, convincing her that if something she loved that fiercely could be traded away, then she must be just as expendable. But grief, starved of comfort, slowly calcified. She stopped asking why they didn’t choose her and started asking why she should ever again choose to be smal… Continues…
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