The porch light illuminated the front steps and the path to the sidewalk.

I could have walked into the night if I’d wanted to.

No one would have blocked the doorway or demanded proof of my goodness before letting me return.

I picked up my notebook and began to write a letter to the fifteen-year-old version of myself, the girl who had stood beneath a dark porch roof in wet sneakers and waited for someone to open the door.

I didn’t tell her everything would be easy.