Inside the frame was my junior-year portrait—the same photograph Mom had once placed beside that white candle. Beneath it was a printed memorial card bearing my full name and the words Forever Seventeen. That was when I understood. After my hospitalization, my parents had told the Whitfields I had died. Brooke had never been avoiding me. She genuinely believed Grant’s younger sister was dead.
I confronted my parents before sunrise. Dad finally admitted that when Grant first started dating Brooke, Mom had panicked about questions surrounding my illness and why I was finishing school from home. Brooke’s family was wealthy, respected, and deeply connected in their church. Mom decided a tragic story was easier than explaining something she considered embarrassing. Then one lie required another. The locked bedroom became a memorial room. My absence became permanent. Even Grandma’s obituary had been altered to protect their story.
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