Don't

For Beth, being thrust out into a world she had been raised to believe was evil was more terrifying than knowing she would have died if she had remained.

—Surviving a Cult Family, Patricia Rose, Ph.D.

“My name is Patricia Rose, and I dare to thrive.” The last words of my speech echo in the hall. The crowd rises to its feet, and applause explodes around me, enveloping me like loving arms. All the struggles, all the pain, all the walls I’ve constructed to protect myself for so many years dissolve. This time—this time—I allow myself to feel truly successful. My little book—the book that almost wasn’t published—is making a difference in people’s lives. I fight back tears. For the first time in my life, I believe enough to allow praise to sink in.

This is the kind of moment that changes a life forever.

My feelings of elation follow me into the reception, held in my honour. I’m still fairly new to having a publicist, but Carol definitely earns her money as she deftly steers me through the minefield of small talk, handshakes, and overzealous hugs from people who’ve had a few too many trips to the champagne fountain. Even with my visceral distaste of this crowded room, filled with inebriated people dressed in their very best, Carol ensures I meet the right people and say the right things. In between greeting people, Carol hints that offers of a book series and even a potential movie are being bandied about. Among the constantly shifting people and chaotic buzz, I begin to relax.

Carol becomes distracted by a conversation with the hosts while I talk with a group of young writers. Elation begins to swell again as I realize that five pairs of eager eyes are focused on me and that these enthusiastic young writers are hanging on every word I say. All the earlier worries fade away while the realization that I’m actually living this life takes hold. I begin to believe.

Our discussion is interrupted by an authoritative voice behind me. “Dr. Patricia Helen Rose?”

With an apologetic glance toward the young admirers, I excuse myself and turn to find a short, stocky man with the most fascinating handlebar mustache. His hands are clasped behind his back. Trying to ease the formality of his greeting, I smile. “I’m not answering to ‘Doctor’ this evening. Please call me Patricia.” I extend my hand. “And you are . . . ?”

Expecting this man to complete the handshake, I watch as he places an official-looking envelope into my outstretched hand. “I’m Jeffrey Downs. And you, Patricia Rose, have been served.”

I see Carol’s head turn as she catches the exchange from the corner of her eye, but before she can intercept the envelope, I’ve already started to open it. By the time she reaches my side, I’ve pulled out the piece of paper and unfolded it. As I read the letter, the room suddenly moves in slow motion, and an icy chill sweeps through my body.

I’ll have to face my siblings in a court of law.