1977

17-year-old Olive sucked in a deep breath and deposited two quarters. She didn’t want to do this but knew she must so the people in her family would know she’s okay and wouldn’t be sending the cops to track her down anytime soon. Gripping the phone tight, half of her wanted slam the phone back on the holder while the other half wanted to go on. I can’t do this, she thought, yet…

Running her fingers over the number keys, she dialed the familiar number to her home. It rang twice before her mother’s voice came on, “hello?” Her mother said, sounded tired, like she hadn’t slept for weeks.

Olive breathed. She couldn’t speak. Instead, she let out a sound of half-sob and half-choke.

Her mother gasped and whispered, “Olive? Is that you? Are you okay? Are you hurt? Where are you?” The questions kept coming. After a moment of silence on both ends, her mother spoke again, “You don’t have to tell me anything. I don’t want to know. You just come home when you’re ready.”

2025

“I didn’t return home until 1990, when my sister, Margaret, got married.” 65-year-old Olive says, sitting on the living room floor with her daughter, Olivia, sorting her photo collection to be digitized. Olive holds up a somewhat faded photo of her and her sister, Margaret. “Doesn’t she look lovely in that dress?”

“So you were by yourself all those years?”

“Don’t be so surprised,” Olive retorts, “I’ve always felt fiercely independent. I ran away because I ran away because I felt I was being squeezed too tightly by my parents.”

Suddenly, Olivia felt like why her mother has always forced her to make her own decisions about her life. “Is that why you’ve never made my decisions for me?”

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