Last Thursday, I walked into a restaurant expecting nothing more dramatic than a glass of wine and a quiet meal alone. By the time I walked out, I’d watched the version of my family I’d believed in for 20 years collapse in front of me.
My name is Natalie Brooks. I’m 29, and until last week, I honestly thought my family was solid.
When I was five, my real dad died of leukemia. One month, it was “a stubborn flu,” and by the end of the year, I was in a little black dress I didn’t understand while adults bent down to tell me how “strong” I was.
I remember the hospital smell, the machines, his hands getting thinner every time I visited. I remember my mom, Diane, crying in the hallway, then wiping her face and coming back in with a smile for me.
After he died, our house went quiet in a way that didn’t feel normal. My mom worked two jobs, clipped coupons, and still packed my lunches with little notes like, “Have a good day, Nat. Love you.”
When I was eight, she met Mark.
She’d say, “We’re going to be okay, Nat,” sometimes to me, sometimes to herself.
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