“That was your fifth birthday. Do you remember that party?” She pointed at the picture, silently holding out hope that I’d remember the good times.

I studied the photo closely. Aunt Wanda was in the background, a scowl on her face and a cigarette between her skinny fingers. She was definitely the darkness that shadowed that party.

“I don’t remember this,” I said, returning the picture to the pile. I didn’t want to look at Aunt Wanda.

She dug through the box again, looking for a specific picture. When she found just the right one, she handed it to me.

“What about this?”

There I was again, on a rocking horse. A Christmas tree stood tall in the background. Momma sat on the floor in red flannel pajamas, her hair swept up in a loose bun. She had the biggest smile on her face as she watched me. She was happy.

I scanned the photo, identifying my uncles and, again, Aunt Wanda. She was leaning against the wall a vacant stare on her face, her arm crossed, her sights set on my mother. And, of course, her trademark cigarette.

I looked at my mom. She wiped her eyes, letting out an uneasy laugh. I could see the pain in her eyes. It hurt her to know I didn’t remember any of these things. I could tell she had held out hope that I would remember.

Her face was so young. She didn’t look worn and damaged like Wanda. If my mom was supposed to have been such a bad person, I’d think it would have shown all over her face, just like Wanda.

“I don’t remember this,” I said, handing the picture back to her.

“What do you remember when you were here with me?” she asked.

“I remember the night I left. There were sounds coming from your bedroom. I was young, but I knew it wasn’t something I needed to see.” I looked away. “And then Aunt Wanda came barreling in the door threatening to burn the house down.”

“She was always so angry with me. Sometimes I didn’t blame her. But she was always so angry,” she said, thinking back on her older sister.

I nodded in agreement. Aunt Wanda was full of anger—unspeakable rage. And I never knew why.

“Kendall, did you think she would?” Her face softened. Had this been the moment I had been waiting for?

“I was a kid. She’d put the fear of God in me and I believed her. You were always crying and I didn’t want her to hurt anyone, so I went with her.” My mind rushed back to that night so many years ago. Twelve years was a long time to be away from my mom. I didn’t even remember her and I didn’t know if my memories were my own or if they’d been made up by Aunt Wanda.

I remembered the sound of that door screeching open and Aunt Wanda’s footsteps stomping down to my mother’s bedroom. She banged on her bedroom door. She went ballistic when my mom wouldn’t come out. I didn’t blame her—I wouldn’t have either. Aunt Wanda showed up a couple times a week. How was she to know this time would be different?

Aunt Wanda was always so jealous of my mother. Her jealousy was worse when she was drunk. That night she was going to teach Joy-Ann a lesson by burning down the house. I was only seven, but I knew what could happen and people could get hurt or die. I didn’t want that to happen.

So I climbed out of my bed and tugged on Aunt Wanda’s arm. I begged her to take me with her.

After a few minutes, she backed down from her threats. She looked me over, possibly weighing her options, and the next thing I knew she was yelling at me to pack my things so we could go. So we left. My mom would be safe and I was on the road to New Mexico with Aunt Wanda.

I never imagined the life ahead. And I never thought it would be twelve years before I’d return to my former life.

Momma got up and went to the big picture window. “Go ahead, Kendall. Talk to me. Tell me what you’re feeling. You’re not going to hurt my feelings,” she told me.

“Why didn’t you come out of the bedroom that night? Didn’t you hear her?” I asked quickly. It was the one thing I’d wanted to know for years.

“I was sure it was like every time before. I thought she was there to complain about something that didn’t go her way. You know, with a man or with something she was plotting. Wanda was always in trouble with someone.” Momma sighed.

“She hated you so much,” I told her.

She shook her head and sat back down. “She hated me so much she took my kid away for twelve years. Now that’s hate. I was young. I thought that man in my bedroom that night loved me and you.”

I pursed my lips. “Did he?” I couldn’t even remember who the man was.

“Of course not. I was the girl who got knocked up by Leon. I was the laughing stock of Gusby. He left that night and never came back.” She frowned and dropped her chin toward her chest in shame.

I thought how she was probably always sad because she was alone with no one to love her. She was alone with a child.

“Why didn’t you do anything when you discovered your daughter was missing?” I didn’t want to be mean and upset her more than she already was, but I needed answers.

Her eyes filled with concern. She smoothed her hair behind her ear. “I called the sheriff. I told him that Wanda was the last one at the house that night. They knew our family. They chalked it up to a typical sisterly spat and told me if it was Wanda she would bring you back home,” she explained.

She pulled something from the box of photographs—a worn-out paper. It was more than a piece of paper. It was proof that my mom had tried to get me back. She tried to get help in finding me.

Scrawled across the top in sloppy handwriting were the words ‘Domestic Complaint.’ It didn’t say kidnapped or missing person. They had classified my disappearance as a family dispute. My entire life had been turned upside-down because nobody wanted to help my mother.

“Our family was always in trouble with the law. We weren’t good people. And then with the situation with Leon they just didn’t care or have the means to fund a search for a poor girl from Gusby. Kendall, I’m so, so sorry,” she said, crying all over again.

We talked all the way into the evening. She wanted to know everything. All the things I’d been through. She wanted every detail.

I told her about our travels. I made up stories of all the different places I saw. I concocted half-truths about many of the things I told her—I didn’t want her to know how bad it really was. I told her I was even happy at times and how I’d missed her. And went so far as to say it wasn’t as bad as it really was.

I couldn’t break her heart all over again. I could see she’d had her heart broken a long time ago and I thought she had suffered enough.

She wasn’t the awful person Aunt Wanda had brainwashed me to believe she was.

It made sense to me now why Aunt Wanda didn’t want me to go home. She didn’t want me to go home because the truth was waiting. My mom may have been young and irresponsible, but she loved me and cared about me. She didn’t think of me as a mistake. She’d wanted me when Leon didn’t. She was far from perfect but she was my mother.

“I want to help you out. And I want you to know you and Mason are welcome to stay here as long as you need to. We can go first thing in the morning to try and get this straightened out if you want to. I don’t want you two to have to worry about what Wanda and Payton did. You guys are kids. You shouldn’t have to suffer for their sins,” she said.

We both stood up from the table, our bodies aching and weary from the long reunion.

“I think that’s a good idea, but what about Mason? I’m worried about him,” I said for the hundredth time.

Momma bit down on her lip. She touched my arm to reassure me that everything would be fine. She knew she couldn’t promise, but she was going to try. I knew I hadn’t told her the whole truth and I was still scared.

“Mason is a good boy. And he loves you. And I can tell you love him. We’ll all figure this out together. Now get some sleep. Tomorrow will be here before we know it,” she said.