My eight-year-old sister was thrown out of the house by our adoptive parents on Christmas night.

I folded the paper slowly.
Not because I was afraid my hands would shake—but because if I moved too fast, whatever was holding me together might finally fall apart.

They hadn’t planned her death in a moment of rage.
Not during an argument.
Not in panic.

They planned it the way people plan renovations.
On paper.
With signatures.
With dates.

Clean. Precise. Efficient.

A life reduced to columns and margins.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t tear the document apart.

I memorized it.

Then I drove.

Straight past the iron Sterling gates, past the lights strung for their holiday gala, past the music and champagne laughter leaking into the night like something obscene. I didn’t slow down. I didn’t look back.

All I could see was Mia.

Her reflection trembled in the rearview mirror—small, pale, her breath shallow but steady now that the car’s heater had done its work. She was asleep, finally. Curled into herself like an animal that had learned the world was not safe.

The hospital on Christmas Eve was wrong in the quiet way only hospitals can be.
Too still.
Too empty.
Too honest.

A nurse wrapped Mia in warm blankets, murmuring softly as if sound itself might break her. Her vitals were taken. Then retaken. Then checked again.

Hypothermia.
Early stages.

Bruised ribs.
Old marks.
New ones.

Patterns no accident could explain.

Mia’s fingers stayed wrapped around mine the entire time, even while she slept—as if letting go might mean disappearing.

“She’s lucky,” the doctor said quietly, meeting my eyes. “Another hour out there, and this would be a very different conversation.”

I nodded.

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