My knees give out.
I collapse into the grass, half sobbing, half laughing. My hands press into the earth as my chest caves under relief and tears cascade down my cheeks.
Hot tears.
The kind my mother calls weak. Out of habit, I press my face into my hands to stop them, but they pour out—relief so sharp it hurts. This goes deeper than the goats. It’s years of pent-up emotions I’ve blocked, and the dam has finally been breached. It’s fear I didn’t let myself feel, and anger I’ve swallowed for decades.
And guilt.
Because I assumed my mom did this. It made sense—she’s the type to take something I love and call it a lesson.
I swipe at my face, and I smile at my incredibly naughty goats. There’s something wrong in not trusting my own mother. The fact I instantly assumed this was her doing tells me moreabout the choices I need to make ahead than anything else. Overwhelming relief floods me, and I sink to the ground, cross-legged, letting the tears fall freely. My face is hot and wet. I don’t wipe the tears away, because I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to be told to stop.
I don’t know how long it lasts, but I’m no longer crying when I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t flinch because I’m numb. Then weight settles beside me. I glance sideways and see Ty’s sneakers, mud-splattered at the toes. He plops down beside me, close enough our arms touch. After a second, his hand finds mine.
We stay like that, watching the goats wander farther down the creek. I have to scoot forward a few feet to keep them in view. Ty scoots too and eventually breaks the silence. “You were crying.”
My voice comes out wrecked but honest. “Yeah. And it felt good.” I’m surprised by the truth.
“You probably need to cry.” His thumb rubs a slow circle on my hand. “You had a lot of stress these past couple weeks. Not to mention being let go from your job.” He pulls back enough to look at me. “Not to rush you, but we should maybe get them back in the pen before they go too far down the creek,” he says gently. “The creek looks pretty deep down there.”
I look past him, at the house in the distance. The weight of all the unhappy years that linger inside those walls crashes over me, and I’m relieved I’ve run out of tears. All I have left is a shake of my head. “No. I’m not putting them back in the pen. I’m loading them in their trailer.”
“Okay,” he says. “Do you know where you’re going?”
“Away.” I stand, shoulders squared, ready to do what I must.
With Ty on my heels, I storm up to my room, and I fling open the closet doors, grabbing my old duffel bag. I’m half surprised all my clothes are still hanging neatly like I left them, and my mom didn’t use the opportunity to publicly donate my stuff to Goodwill for PR. I can’t even laugh at the ridiculous thoughts flying through my head as I tug the zipper a bit harder than necessary.
“Lottie, what in the world is going on?” My mom stands in the doorway, arms crossed, mouth thin. “You’re being awfully loud.”
I don’t look at her. In one sweep, I scoop all my T-shirts from the closet and dump them into the open bag, hangers and all. Ty steps forward quietly, tugging at the hangers to help the shirts fit better. Neither of us looks at my mom, but I grunt, “What are you doing home in the middle of the day?”
“I came when your father texted me the goats were lost. Ham and I both did, but when we pulled up, we saw them on their leashes and tied to the porch. Did they not want to go back in their pen?”
I give her a side-eye. Like she cares about my goats enough to come home midday. She’s clearly concerned about something else. “I didn’t put them in their pen because I’m going to load them up and take them with me. I’m moving.”
Her head tips to the side. “What are you talking about?”
“Just what I said.” I open my sock drawer, decide I need everything, and dump the entire drawer into my bag beforesliding it back. Her eyes widen as she watches. “I can’t be here anymore.”
Her head tilts away from me, as if she wishes to add physical distance. She plants her hands on her hips, exactly how she always does before taking control of a conversation. “Lottie, where do you think you will go with three goats?”
“I’ll figure it out.” Refusing to cower, I level my gaze with hers, and widen my stance, stamping determination on my face. We enter a silent stare down.
It’s quiet for a long beat before Ty steps forward. “Hey.” His voice is soft. “I’ll help you move, but not like this.”
My mom lets out a humorless laugh and brushes off his words with a flick of her wrist. “How noble of you, Ty.”
He remains loose, seemingly unaffected by her insults. “I don’t want her leaving hurt.”
“You don’t want?” my mom snaps. “This isn’t about whatyouwant. You’ve already caused enough damage. I had everything planned for Lottie with Bodan. If it weren’t for you butting in, she’d be on her way to the Senate in a few years. Now she can’t even take care of herself without a job. Let alone those goats. She’ll be lucky to find a job bagging groceries after the scandal you two created. What a joke.”
Tension coils through me before I cough out, “Mom—”
Before I can yell about all the ways she has damaged me, Ty steps in front of me—not blocking me but inserting himself into the conversation. “You can be angry,” he says evenly. “I get that. But you don’t get to speak to Lottie like that.”
As much as I want to avoid eye contact with my mom, I have to see her expression. No one has ever spoken up for me like that, and she’s not going to take it lightly. My mom blinks several times while her body stiffens. “Excuse me? Is that how you talk to a senator?”
