“Your sister’s family gets the guest room. Your kids can sleep on the floor.” Mom tossed two sleeping bags at my six-year-old. My sister laughed. “Should’ve booked a hotel.” I looked at my children kneeling, whispered, “Pack your things, babies,” and we left at 11 p.m. Three days later, Mom discovered what I quietly canceled.

I was standing in the hallway, holding my own backpack. It was blue with a broken zipper. I’d packed it myself. Pajamas. Toothbrush. A book.

“What about me?”

Mom looked up. Not unkindly. But the way you look at a piece of furniture you trust to stay where you put it.

“You’re my strong one, Lauren. You can handle it.”

Aunt Ruth came. Took Ashley. The house got quiet the way houses get quiet when everyone who matters has left and the person remaining isn’t sure they count.

Mom went to the hospital.

I locked the front door. Turned off the downstairs lights. Walked three blocks to the Petersons’ house in the dark, because that was the plan. Mrs. Peterson would watch me until Mom got back.

Three blocks.

No streetlights on Elm. November dark. The sidewalk was cracked in two places, and I stepped over both because I’d memorized them on the walk to school.

I rang the Petersons’ doorbell and counted to ten while I waited.

I didn’t cry.

I counted to ten, and I didn’t cry.

Mrs. Peterson opened the door in a bathrobe.

“Oh, honey. Come in, come in.”

She made me hot chocolate with the mini marshmallows. I sat at her kitchen table and drank it. And didn’t cry. And counted the marshmallows instead.

Seven.