Page 122 of Left-Hand Larceny
I want to believe it. I think maybe I do. Because Ragnar has said the same thing to me. A million times over. And that’s two against one. I can tell my new mindset is going to take practice. By the time I make it home, the sky is dimming and my nerves are back.
My parents’ house smells like something warm—rosemary chicken or maybe one of my dad’s attempts at baking bread. Their routines never change. Their expectations rarely do either. I pause on the front step. I don’t want a fight. I don’t even want a dramatic monologue. I just want to tell the truth without having to earn their ear first.
The door creaks when I push it open.
“Sadie?” My mom’s voice floats in from the kitchen.
“Hey,” I call. “Mind if I join you for dinner?”
There’s a pause. Then, “Of course.”
I hang my coat, kick off my boots, and brace myself.
The table’s already set. Water glasses, folded napkins, salad in a white ceramic bowl. My dad is slicing bread, my mom arranging roasted vegetables on a platter.
They look up when I enter. I take my seat without waiting to be invited.
“Work okay today?” my dad asks as he passes me the breadbasket.
“I had a meeting with my advisor.”
My mom’s eyes flick to mine, curious. “Everything alright? Graduation?”
“Yeah. I’m graduating on time. Just… figuring out what happens after.”
Another pause.
“You’re not continuing?” my mom asks carefully.
“Not in this field. No.”
I don’t soften it. I don’t decorate it with disclaimers. I just let it land.
My dad blinks. “Do you know what you do want?”
“Not yet,” I say. “But I know I want the chance to find out.”
Silence. Not heavy. Just… still.
And then my mom, voice quiet: “Is this about Ragnar?”
“Yes,” I say. “And no.”
They wait.
“He’s part of it. But the truth is I’ve been pretending for a long time, masking. Not just with him. With school. With you. With myself.”
My mom sets her fork down gently. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“I didn’t either,” I say. “Not for a long time.”
She leans forward slightly. “We never wanted you to feel you had to be anyone else. We only ever wanted you to succeed.”
“I know,” I say. “But sometimes it felt like you loved the version of me who smiled through everything more than the one who struggled. The one who didn’t know what she wanted.”
My dad shifts in his chair, face softening. “Are you happy? Now?”
I don’t answer right away.
