When I was eighteen, I had spent two weeks receiving psychiatric treatment for severe depression.
To me, it had been the hardest period of my life.
To my mother, it became a permanent embarrassment.
“You know how Clara’s family is,” she would say while straightening her expensive cardigan. “They’re very traditional. Her father sits on hospital boards. Her mother is involved with the church. They don’t need to hear complicated stories.”
Then she would slide money across the kitchen counter.
“Go somewhere for the weekend, Anastasia. I told them you’re a successful executive living in Atlanta.”
My father, Arthur, never argued.
He usually kept his eyes on his financial newspaper.
“Just go until Sunday, Annie. Don’t create problems.”
So I went.
Again.
And again.
For years, I convinced myself that maybe they were only trying to protect Julian’s future.
Maybe they were ashamed.
Maybe they didn’t know how to explain what had happened to me.
Maybe pretending I lived somewhere else was easier than confronting their own cruelty.
Then, six months before everything collapsed, Clara walked into the nursery where I worked.
Green Valley Nursery was the only place where I felt normal.
I worked with soil, shrubs, trees, and flowers.
Plants didn’t care about family reputations.
They didn’t ask why I had once needed help.
If you gave them light, water, and room, they grew.
That afternoon, Clara entered the greenhouse wearing a white linen dress and a silk scarf.
I recognized her immediately.
My brother’s fiancée.
The woman my entire family had spent years trying to impress.
She had no idea who I was.
She smiled warmly.
“Excuse me. Could you help me choose a dogwood tree?”
My hands froze.
“A dogwood?”
“Yes. White blossoms, if possible.”
She lowered her voice.
