Here's the second chapter...

Same disclaimer as last chapter

Sunday, December 8, my parents' room

It's been a week since the funeral. I haven't cried anymore since then. I don't know if I can. I feel emotionally drained.

Lilly and Michael are out right now, to the store, I think. It's good. Lilly is beginning to make me go nuts. She keeps telling me how worried she is and how I don't eat enough. Well, who has an appetite after their parents die?

They don't know what to do with me. I don't have any other family, and I'm turning eighteen soon. Even if they did take me in, I would be heading off to college in the fall. Plus, they have zero experience as parents, too.

I hear them whispering about it when they think I can't hear them. They sneak glances at me when they think I'm not looking. I feel like they think something's wrong with me.

You know what I want to tell them? That there is. I feel like screaming it at them. My parents died. I think I'm allowed to be depressed.

Anyway, I think I just might start sleeping in here, my parents' room. Everything is still the way they left it Friday morning. Her hairbrush is still by the sink, his tie is draped over the chair from after Thanksgiving dinner, her jewelry box is still open, the bed is unmade. It even still smells like them.

Maybe if I close my eyes, I can pretend that they're still here.

Sunday, December 8, still my parents' room

When Lilly came home and found me on my parents' bed, she freaked out. I was just sleeping, but I think that she thought I was dead. She calmed down once she realized I was okay. She apologized and hugged me. Then, she offered me food, which I politely refused. After that, she left so I could go back to sleep.

Which, of course, now I can't.

So, instead, I decided to go through the boxes on top of the shelf in my mom's closet. She said that she always kept everything important up there, and I want to know what's up there.

I had to grab a chair because I still can't reach high enough to grab any of the boxes down. I grabbed down a bunch of boxes and sat down on the floor with them in a semi-circle around me.

Old bills and bank stuff…

Insurance stuff on the cars…

And a ton of other absolutely useless stuff…

Then, I saw a bigger box. Labeled in my mom's tidy scrawl, it read "Delia's STUFF." My heart started pounded. I debated whether or not I should take the top off or if I should just shove it back in the closet.

Finally, I took the top off and carefully laid it down on the floor next to me. School report cards, pictures of me at all different ages, my baby book, drawings… I reached further down into the box and pulled out a bunch of papers buried at the bottom. My birth certificate and adoption papers.

Suddenly, I felt sick. I didn't want to look at them. Somehow, I felt like I would betray my parents by looking at these papers, like saying that they weren't my real parents. But, I couldn't help it when my eyes started to scan the page.

My eyes stopped towards the bottom of the page.

Garwin.

My last name is Garwin.

Monday, December 9, the bathroom

I'm writing this in the one place Lilly won't just happen to come into while I'm writing. I know she means well, but if she tries to get me to eat one more time, I'm going to explode.

Anyway, I did some research online about Meredith and Joseph Garwin, my birth parents. They live out in Massachusetts in a place called Ipswich, which is pretty close to Boston.

Lilly and Michael don't have to worry about what they're going to do with me anymore.

My plane leaves on Thursday.

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