I arrived at Soulberg Orchards above the Columbia River, where an old friend named Ingred offered me a seasonal job and a safe place to finally establish my own life. I spent the next four years pouring my energy into the land, using my skills to graft thousands of new apple branches onto old root systems and eventually earning a promotion to assistant orchard manager by two thousand and twenty five. I found genuine companionship with a mechanic named Callum and built a supportive community that valued my hard work rather than viewing me as a complicated burden to be hidden away. My peaceful new existence was abruptly interrupted in early two thousand and twenty six when Avery’s mother, Suzanne Lockheart, attempted to establish a high school horticulture scholarship in my memory. My former high school teacher recognized my name on the memorial scholarship paperwork and immediately contacted my father, inadvertently unraveling the intricate web of lies my parents had maintained for over a decade. My family scrambled to contact me, desperately pleading with me to validate their cruel story to protect Mitch’s marriage, but my yellow notebook stood as undeniable proof of my existence
I decided to return to Alabama for the Easter sunrise service, but first I visited my Aunt Rosalind in the state care facility where my
family had hidden her away for similar reasons years ago. This visit helped me understand that my mother had learned this toxic behavior of erasing family struggles from her own parents, though understanding the origin of the trauma did not excuse the profound damage it caused. I met with Suzanne Lockheart in private and showed her my yellow notebook, detailing every weekend I had been forced out of my home while she had been unknowingly mourning my fabricated death. At the church memorial service the next morning, I stood beside my own blooming dogwood tree and completely shocked my parents with my physical presence among the gathered congregation. Suzanne invited me forward to read the name of Avery’s deceased brother, allowing the stunned crowd to slowly piece together the reality of the situation without me ever having to raise my voice or hurl an accusation. My father finally acknowledged me publicly as his daughter, while my mother quietly retreated from the garden in sheer humiliation.
