You Thought My Turn Could Always Come Later Chapter 01
The year my parents divorced, they both hugged me.
“Sabine, it’s okay,” they said. “Mommy and Daddy still love you.”
“Most people only get one home. Now you’ll have two.”
In my first life, I chose my mother, since she was better off.
After she remarried, she had Penelope.
Then she started forgetting to pick me up from school.
She forgot my birthday.
She didn’t even remember I had asthma.
That life ended when I died in a practice room at the community music center.
It took a janitor three days to find me.
The police asked my mother where I kept my rescue inhaler.
She stared at them for a long time.
“She has asthma?”
The second time around, I chose my father. He didn’t have much money, but he’d always loved me.
He drove long-haul trucks, but he never missed a single parent-teacher conference.
Every day, he picked me up in that old Honda. In the winter, he’d warm up the car first so my seat wouldn’t be cold.
I thought this time would be different.
On the first day, Dad told me to take the bus home because his new stepdaughter, Chloe, had just moved in and wasn’t adjusting well.
The second day was the same.
A week passed. Then a month.
I stood at the school gates, watching that old car drive past me, again and again.
Chloe was always in the passenger seat.
That day, I stopped waiting.
I got on the bus by myself and watched the streetlights flicker on, one by one.
Mom had a new life.
Dad did, too.
I had chosen twice, and neither of them had saved a place for me.
…
It wasn’t until the bus had gone several blocks that I finally looked away from the window.
Dad’s old Honda had already disappeared down another street.
Chloe was in the passenger seat, wrapped in his coat, holding a cup of hot chocolate from Dunkin’.
I looked down at my own hands, red from the cold.
This morning, Dad had sworn he’d pick me up after school.
He’d looked me right in the eye.
“I promise I’ll be there.”
But by the time the school gates were empty, he still hadn’t shown up.
I waited for forty minutes before taking the bus myself.
It was almost eight by the time I got home.
Half a plate of cold pasta sat on the dining table. A few pieces of broccoli drowned in the congealed sauce, barely recognizable.
My stepmother, Megan, was blow-drying Chloe’s hair.
She glanced up only once when I walked in.
“There’s food in the kitchen,” she said without turning off the dryer. “Heat it up yourself. And keep it down. Chloe transferred today, and the kids in her class asked why she didn’t have a dad. She cried the whole way home.”
Dad was crouched beside them, drying Chloe’s wet sneakers with a towel.
He paused.
“If anyone asks again,” he said softly, “just tell them I’m your dad.”
Chloe, her eyes puffy and red, threw her arms around his neck.
“But you’re Sabine’s dad.”
Dad’s eyes immediately shot to me.
He was asking me to go along with it.
Again.
I didn’t say anything. I just turned and went into the kitchen.
The pasta was a sticky, cold lump.
I’d only managed two bites when Dad came in.
“Sabine, I didn’t mean to miss picking you up.”
“Chloe was crying so hard at school she could barely breathe,” he explained. “I was afraid something would happen.”
Then, he pulled a pair of wool gloves from his pocket.
They were red, with two little white pom-poms sewn onto the wrists.
“You’re always saying your hands get cold. I passed a store and bought these for you.”
I lifted my hand.
Before I could touch them, Chloe appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Those are so pretty.”
She stared at the gloves, and her nose started to get red again.
“My dad used to buy me things like that.”
Dad’s hand froze midair.
Chloe didn’t reach for them. She just lowered her head.
“It’s okay. Sabine has a dad.”
She sniffled. “I don’t.”
Dad’s expression shifted.
He turned back to me, his voice tight.
“Sabine…”
I pulled my hand back.
“Give them to her.”
He let out a breath and immediately handed the gloves to Chloe.
“Here. From now on, Daddy will buy you things.”
Chloe’s tears vanished. She smiled and pulled the gloves on right in front of me.
They fit perfectly.
Dad patted her head, then finally seemed to remember I was there.
“I’ll get you a better pair next time.”
“Okay.”
I lowered my head and went back to my cold pasta.
Dad tried again. “What do you want to eat tomorrow? I’ll make it for you.”
I speared the last piece of broccoli with my fork.
“Anything.”
He made a lot of promises he didn’t keep.
That night, I took out my piggy bank.
Six hundred and thirty-two dollars.
I counted it twice, then opened my notebook.
*Greyhound ticket to Boston: $186.*
*Lodging: TBD.*
*Living expenses: As much as possible.*
I closed the notebook.
Starting today, I had to save my own money and find my own place to live.