“Hey.”

I look up, but don’t say anything. Mrs. Johnson comes over and sits down on my bed while I pack my pocketbook with necessary items. I also put in the fast-acting anxiety medicine, for just in case.

“Are you ready?” my foster mother asks. “They’re probably at the park already, waiting for us.”

The tears that have escaped my eyes… the tears that I’ve so desperately tried to keep hidden answer her question. But still, I say a quiet, “No.”

° * ° * °

It’s a five minute drive to the park, and we have about two more minutes to go until we get there. With every passing second, I become more nervous.

“Mrs. Johnson?”

“Yes, Trinity?”

“Can you please turn the radio off?” I ask.

“Is the noise making it worse?” she replies, glancing over at me. I don’t say anything, but nod instead. “Okay, no problem. For me, music usually helps to calm my nerves.”

My phone buzzes in my bag, and at first I wonder if it’s a reminder for me to take my morning medicine. I haven’t had the chance to delete the reminders yet. I haven’t been taking the pills since what happened at church a few weeks ago, and I haven’t needed them like I used to.

Christopher: I wish I could be there with you.

A small smile comes to my face when I see his name.

Me: I wish you could, too.

Christopher: Just remember that Jesus is with you wherever you go.

“You ready?” Mrs. Johnson says, snapping me out of my thoughts. I didn’t realize the car stopped moving.

“No.”

“I understand, sweetheart,” she replies, “but–”

“No, you don’t.” The words, said firmly, slip out before I can stop them. Not only do I surprise Mrs. Johnson, but my own self as well. “You could never understand.” As soon as I open the car door and step out, I see them. Both of them.

My father and mother are sitting under the same oak tree and on the same black metal bench, far apart from each other, but together nevertheless. I haven’t seen them together in almost four years. I was taken away at twelve, and they had a divorce one year after.

Unable to move, I just stand here at the car as I stare at my mother, who has tears streaming down her face. I wonder how much of this is real, or if it is at all. She’s always been a good actor, able to cry as hard as she wanted on command.

She suddenly stands up and slowly walks toward me, but I back away, not wanting to be touched by her. I can see the genuine sadness in her eyes. Is it from regret, or rejection?

“Trinity,” she says.

My quiet response is, “Mom…” That’s all I feel I can say. I want to ask her why… why she allowed all that happened to me… why she just went with it and acted as if it was a normal, everyday thing, like I thought for so long. How could she think that the money we received was worth the five years of trauma, and for a girl so young? The memories will forever be etched in my mind, but that doesn’t mean…

“Trinity, I am so sorry… I know that what I what I did is unfor–”

“I forgive you.”

“What..?” she asks, looking up from the ground with wide eyes.

“I said I forgive you. What you did is not okay, but I forgive you.”