Free Teaching Willow: Session Four by Paige James Page B

that I apologize. 
    I take a pen from the small desk pushed up against one wall of the kitchen and I scrawl my signature across the bottom of each copy of the contract.  At least I’ll have some more money coming in.  Working manual labor on these small construction jobs is paying the bills, but I need to get out of this apartment.  I feel like I’m suffocating.  And this book deal will help me to do that.
    When the contracts are in a return envelope, I put two stamps on it and grab the envelope that hangs from the top edge of the calendar. It has been packed up, addressed, and ready to go since the day after I moved in here.  I stare at the name for a few seconds–Willow Masters–before I scoop up my car keys from the counter and head for the door. 
    I squint into the sun as I make my way to my car.  For the first time in months, it’s not the only brightness that I can see in my life.
     

TWENTY-THREE- WILLOW
     
    I flip through my mail as I walk toward my front door.  It’s easy to identify bills.  They are the only items that lack the yellow sticker that indicates when something is being forwarded from Sage’s address.  The only things coming from there are junk, for the most part. 
    When I reach the front door, I mentally put the mail on the back burner of my brain in order to enjoy this moment , the best part of every day.   
    I smile as I shuffle my keys for the right one.  This marks the eighth day that I’ve been in my new apartment and I’m not enjoying it one bit less.  Yes, it’s scary to live on my own with no one to help me, but it’s also incredibly liberating.  In one way or another, I’ve lived under the thumb of my parents since birth.  Being on my own, answerable to no one but myself, feels even better than I thought it would.  There’s no one around to criticize my every choice.  There’s no one around to analyze my every mood.  There’s no one around to tell me that I’m getting fat, no one to tell me that my life is going nowhere.  But most importantly, there is no one around to threaten my baby.  Even though she’s not born yet, I don’t trust my parents not to do something stupid and try to take her from me.  I’ve had far too rocky a history with them to take the chance.
    So, here I am.  Staring at my very own front door.  I slide my key into my knob and walk into my apartment.  And I don’t stop smiling.
    I flip on the overhead light switch by the door.  The only lamp I have at the moment is in the bedroom.  The place is kind of bare bones, but I’m making do. In fact, I’m kind of proud that I’m making it without help or luxury.  Yes, my living room furniture consists of a futon couch, two crates as a coffee table and two more on which the television sits, but it’s home and it’s mine, and that’s all that matters.  I brought my own bedroom furniture.  A guy that worked at the restaurant where I waited tables helped move me.  I played up the “weak little girl” stereotype so that I wouldn’t get stuck lifting a bunch of heavy stuff and risking my baby.  My family has always thought I was the weak one of the herd.  Although they will never know how far I’ve come, I can’t help but think If only they could see me now!
    I drop down onto one end of the futon and resume my perusal of the mail.  My fingers stop when I get to a small padded manila envelope.  I stare at it, my heart beating wildly right behind my ribs, as my focus narrows on the return address.  Ebon Daniels.  4721 Harmony Place, Apartment 1, Jacksonville, FL.
    My fingers relax around everything except this one item, letting all the other correspondence I’m holding fall to the floor.  Suddenly, the air feels thick, too thick for my meager lungs to inhale.  Suddenly, my blood feels sticky, too sticky for my racing heart to pump. Suddenly my head…my head is spinning, my solid, comfortable existence instantly turned upside down.
    With shaking fingers, I tear open