Everything is the same. Except me.

I stand there, looking at the house I fled three years ago.

I can’t move. I can’t make myself go in that house.

Sarah comes around the truck and stands beside me. “Ready?” she asks.

I shake my head. I will never be ready for this. Never.

She doesn’t say anything, and she doesn’t move. We stand there for at least five minutes. Five really, really, really long minutes. I’m still not ready to move, no matter how long those minutes seem. I’ll stand here for eternity if I have to, if it can keep me from facing those memories. From facing my father. My mother.

But Sarah seems ready, so she begins to walk across the massive yard—through the grass. My mother won’t like it—she hates anyone touching her perfectly sculpted lawn—but I suppose that’s okay with me.

Sarah doesn’t ask me to join her, doesn’t plead with me to go inside. She leaves me behind, and that’s what makes me go. Did she know that even the smallest of nudges would have kept me rooted even deeper in my spot?

I walk very, very slowly toward the house. I feel defiant for walking through the grass. One small thing at a time. My mother doesn’t own me anymore.

Sarah reaches the top of the steps as I cross the garden. She knocks on the heavy door. I stop at the bottom of the steps, unwilling to go any farther.

Slowly, the door opens. I close my eyes and wait, but I hear nothing.

After a moment of silence, I can’t take it. I open my eyes to see Sarah and the face I’ve been dreading—and hoping for. My mother’s. Apparently she’s gathered enough courage to see me face-to-face.

Her hair is done in a tight bun, and her makeup successfully covers whatever flaws she has developed over the last three years. It’s obvious she spent a long time preparing herself to see her long-lost daughter up close, without a police station hallway between us. Because clearly looking put-together will make this easier.

I want to roll my eyes, shake my head, but in truth, I’m kind of glad to know she hasn’t changed that much. I didn’t ruin everything about her. Even if the thing that didn’t change was something I never liked.

She doesn’t move, just looks at me. But I cast my eyes to the ground, and she clears her throat.

“Why don’t you both come in?”

I look to Sarah, who nods and walks through the open door first.

We walk down a very familiar hallway and into our huge, bright white kitchen. I’m a stranger in this house.

I’m not the little girl who used to see how far she could slide on the hardwood dining room floor and hid in the linen closet when she was in trouble. I’m definitely not the little girl who sang Christmas songs with her mother while doing the dishes, even in the summer. That girl is gone.

I left her in Grand Central Terminal three years ago.

My father is waiting in the kitchen, sitting at the table. I take in a deep breath, sit across from him, and run my hands through my hair. After a pause, Sarah takes a seat beside me. She gives me a reassuring smile that I don’t return.

My mother jumps right into the role of perfect host, walking straight to the refrigerator. Her greatest skill was always ignoring the truth, pretending nothing bothered her, that everything was perfect. I don’t know if she agreed with how my father disciplined me, how harsh he was with even the smallest of transgressions. I think sometimes I blamed her more than I did him. But she was too good at ignoring the truth. I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s doing the same thing now.

“Would you like some tea?” she asks Sarah without a single glance at me. I want her to look at me. I don’t even know why. I should want to run and hide. I should want to hate her, want her to hate me.

But somehow, I don’t. I want her to care.

Less than five minutes in this house and I already feel like a lost thirteen-year-old again. Maybe I’m not as different as I thought I was.

I’m still a stranger in this house, but that’s not such a strange concept to Anna Rodriguez. I never belonged here.

I never understood my mother’s Bible verse plaques that cover the walls of each hallway, or her obsession with being the trophy wife of the year. I never understood my father and his love of money and prestige. Both of them so good at hiding their imperfections.

And the times I didn’t hide what they didn’t want to see? My father reminded me of the price of failure. Why my disguise had to be perfect.

They were either proud or they weren’t. You did what they wanted or you were a disgrace. Pretty sure I know which one I am now.

My mother sets two cups of tea onto the table with shaking hands. Sarah takes hers with thanks. I don’t move.

The silence is thick. I can’t even bring myself to look around the house. I don’t want to remember this place. I stare at the wooden table, hoping to zone out, but a mark on the side grabs my attention. A simple “A” carved into the corner where my mother and father wouldn’t notice it. I run my thumb over the carving and somehow feel like that girl again, desperate but still full of hope.

I take a deep breath and look up and my gaze crashes into my father’s. I freeze beneath his stare.

Does he see his daughter? A girl he once loved?

Or does he see a stranger?

One look at the missing poster they gave to the New York City police tells you the kind of girl I was back then. And one look at my mug shot would tell you who I am now.

You can put all the fancy clothes you want on me, but the ripped stockings they replace will still itch my legs. I look around the room for the first time. The kitchen is exactly the same, down to the mugs that hang next to the coffeepot that was brand-new when I was eleven. The cups are even in the same order.

The refrigerator is bare. At least they don’t have my report cards hanging there anymore. Not that my last year at school was worth hanging. Eighth grade wasn’t my best year. By then I was already sneaking out at night to go to parties and sleep with high schoolers. Remember when I said my parents would have disowned me even then? Surprise! Anna was never a good girl, not really. She was just a good pretender.

One day you get tired of pretending, and the fear of all your lies being exposed becomes suffocating.

I knew I could never be who my parents wanted me to be. That’s why I’m not sure what I’m doing here. Why would they want me back now?

“This is going to be hard on all of you,” Sarah says, breaking the silence. “This situation, it’s…difficult.”

My father grunts indignantly. Mom says nothing. The perfect, obedient wife.

Sarah doesn’t continue. She looks to my father.

“Difficult, that’s what you call it?” he says.

“What would you call it?” I ask him, sounding braver than I feel. I know what he’s getting at, and I’d much rather he say it out loud. He thinks I’m disgusting. A disgrace. He doesn’t respond though, so I continue as if he had. “You’re the one who brought me here. If you think I’m so horrible…”

“Anna, please,” Sarah says, but she’s too quiet. Too polite.

My father ignores her and stands. “I brought you back to save you from that evil place. An evil life.”

“Mr. Rodriguez, please,” Sarah says.

“It was my job as your father to…save you from the evil in your life. Even if it means bringing filth back into my home.” He straightens his shoulders. “That’s our burden to carry.”

I laugh a little under my breath. It’s bitter, even I can see that, but who can blame me? At least he said it. At least he was honest for the first time since I’ve known him.

“Mr. Rodriguez,” Sarah says, louder.

He tears his hard, angry eyes from me to look at her. They soften slightly. Appearances, after all.

“I was saying that this is hard on everyone,” Sarah says. “Including Anna. You must understand, this isn’t her fault.”