I take a selfie. Call it, The Muggle Searches for Magic, and then I pack a small overnight bag and drive the five hours to my parents’ house. My mother hasn’t been speaking to me. She wanted me to forgive Neil, which was fine. There was room in my heart for forgiveness; there wasn’t room in my life for someone who constantly needed it. She wanted to plan a wedding, and I’d foiled her plans of tulle, and pearls, and cake tasting. My father is working in the yard when I pull up. He tips back his Yankees cap and comes to say hello to me.

“Didn’t know you were coming, Hellion. Your mother is going to be so happy to see you.”

“I didn’t know either. And don’t lie to me, Daddy. She’s still pissed.” He smiles like he’s caught.

“She’s at the market, so hide your car around back and get her really good.”

I nod. Nothing better than scaring your overbearing, controlling mother. My dad liked torturing her too; he’d been putting ideas in my head since I was a little girl. Move all of the paintings in the house to different rooms. Rub butter on her reading glasses. Wrap cello wrap around the toilet seat.

My poor mother (who really deserved it). At least she only had the pranks of one child to worry about. My dad comes inside to make me a prime rib sandwich left over from their dinner the night before.

“You coming here to tell us something, Hellion?”

“Yup.” I sip spiked lemonade from the Mason jar he hands me. God bless him.

“Good or bad?” he asks. My dad can’t keep still. He’s never been good at it. I watch him move from the sink, to the fridge, to the back door.

“Why can’t you just ask me a question directly?” I ask him. “What are you here to tell us?” I imitate his deep voice. He shakes his head.

“I don’t sound like that. But, fine,” he says. “What are you here to tell us?”

“I’m moving.”

“To where?”

“It’s really none of your business, Dad.”

He comes to sit down across from me. “Is this about Neil?”

I’m shaking my head before he’s finished his sentence. “No, it’s about me. I’ve always been that girl who you can count on—steadfast, predictable, mousy brown hair. That’s why Neil liked me—well, he wanted me to dye my hair blonde—but the other parts. And you know what? I don’t even think that was me. I think it’s what everyone expected from me, so I just went along with it.”

“So, you’re telling me that on the inside you’re a wild, unpredictable blonde?”

“Maybe. I’d like the chance to find out.”

“Why can’t you find out here?”

I put my pale hand over his brown, calloused one. “Because I’m not brave enough to change with everyone watching me. I want to do it alone. I want it to be real.”

He sits back in his chair and narrows his eyes. I think he learned that look from watching too many Robert De Niro movies. My dad is a handsome guy, his hair is all white, but he spikes it up. He has a tattoo of a flamingo on his forearm. A dare from his college days. I always wanted to be like him, but my personality veered more toward my mother’s.

“Your mother is overbearing and controlling,” he says. “Now, don’t get me wrong, that’s the reason I fell in love with her. All five feet of her, not afraid of anything, and always telling me what to do. It’s pretty hot.”

“Eww, Dad.”

“Sorry. Anyway, it’s nature. Overbearing mothers usually give way to one of two things in their children: rebellion or passivity. In your case, the latter.” He dips his finger into the honey jar that sits in the middle of the table and rubs it across my forehead.

“Go child,” he says. “Be at peace. Let no one overbear you.”

“It’s supposed to be oil,” I say. “You’re supposed to anoint my head with oil.”

I can feel the honey dripping down my forehead toward the bridge of my nose, and then it hangs like snot from the tip of my nose. I lick it off.

“Your mother just pulled into the driveway,” he says. “Go hide in the pantry and scare her.” I hear her tires on the gravel and stand up.

Two days later, I leave my parents’ house, confident as fuck. I even have a little bounce in my step that’s normally not there because of my really bad posture. My mother was hesitant at first, but after an afternoon of sulking and moodily sipping Zinfandel, she decided that the men in Florida weren’t suited for my reserved and articulate personality. The men in Florida. That’s why I was given her blessing to leave. Family is a wonderful thing, mostly when they’re not projecting their shit on you. She called a friend, who called a friend, who had a job secured for me in less than five hours.

“Tell me,” I heard her say over the phone. “Are there handsome, single men working there?”

I had a date with Dean lined up for a week after my move. “Dean,” my mother said, clapping. “A handsome name for a handsome man.”

My dad shook his head behind her shoulder, his eyes large.

Before I left, my dad and I poured her bottle of Zin down the drain and refilled the bottle with a hot sauce concoction we’d been working on all day.

“Don’t forget to video her reaction,” I whispered in my dad’s ear when I kissed him goodbye. “She’s going to divorce both of us if we don’t stop.”

My dad guffaws. “She’d have to learn to pump her own gas,” he calls out.

“Never gonna happen!” I wave goodbye.

Two down—the most important two. Now I just had to tell Della and June. Thank God. I give eight weeks’ notice to my job. I haven’t been there long enough for anyone to really care that I’m leaving. They throw a party for me anyway, and spell my name wrong on the cake. I wait to tell Della last.

“What the hell do you mean you’re moving to Washington?” she says. “How could you just make a decision like this and never talk to me about it?” I sit there for a while, thinking about how to answer her, running the tip of my finger over the grooves that mark the edge of the table. We are at that age that balances between independence and conferring with your friends about every miniscule decision you make. I’ve never liked that part of adolescence, but tried my hardest to play along. Should I get bangs, Della? Do I want a silver car or a gold car? The dark wash jeans, or the light?