The bus station in Petoskey smelled like old coffee and wet gravel. Ellie sat on the edge of a hard plastic bench, her duffel tucked between her legs, the early morning chill still clinging to her skin. The horizon was just starting to blush pink, a soft light leaking across the sky like a secret.
She'd made it. She'd walked the four miles into town under cover of darkness, heart thudding like a hymn gone wrong. The bus to Traverse City would leave in 17 minutes. Enough time for her to change her mind three times and still make it on board.
Her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket.
Ellie's chest tightened before she even looked.
MOM.
The name glowed like an alarm. She let it ring once. Twice. Her thumb hovered over Decline.
But something in her knew better. She pressed Answer.
"Ellie?" her mom's voice snapped through the line. Too sharp, too alert for this early in the morning. "Where are you?"
Ellie swallowed. Her tongue felt like a mouthful of sand.
"I—" she began, "I'm just out walking. I couldn't sleep."
"Walking? At five in the morning? With your bag gone from the closet?" Her voice cracked. "Don't lie to me. Not now."
Ellie closed her eyes. The lie wilted in her mouth.
"I'm at the station. I'm leaving."
There was a pause. It stretched so long that Ellie thought maybe the call had dropped. Then:
"Leaving where, Eleanor?"
"Anywhere," she said softly. "Just… not there. Not home. Not the Hall."
The line went dead silent again, but she could hear her mother's breathing. Quick. Uneven. Then:
"You stay put. I'm coming."
The call ended before Ellie could say no.
She waited, because part of her still felt tethered. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was fear. Maybe some small ember of hope that her mother would understand.
When the beige minivan pulled into the lot, Ellie stood before her mom even stepped out. Sister Martha Lindholm—faithful, devoted, elder's wife—looked smaller in the soft morning light. Her hair, usually coiled into a strict bun, was fraying at the edges. She wasn't wearing makeup. Not even the pale pink lipstick she always said gave her a "fresh face for Jehovah."
She didn't say a word as she opened the passenger door from inside.
Ellie got in.
They drove in silence for almost three minutes. Then her mother finally asked:
"Why?"
Ellie looked out the window. Trees blurred past like bars on a cell.
"Because I can't do it anymore," she said. "I can't be who you want me to be. Who the Hall wants me to be."
Her mother flinched like she'd been struck. "We raised you to love Jehovah."
"You raised me to obey," Ellie replied. "There's a difference."
Her mom gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Do you have any idea what you're saying?"
"Yes," Ellie said. "I've had seventeen years to figure it out."
"I didn't raise you to be of the world," her mother said, almost pleading.
"You didn't raise me to be me either." Ellie's voice cracked. "You raised me to be quiet. To be afraid of people outside. To smile while pretending I was okay with never asking questions. I'm not okay."
They pulled over on the side of the road. The woods hummed with birds waking up.
Her mom turned to her, and for a moment, Ellie saw the woman—not the Witness, not the elder's wife, not the Hall mouthpiece—but the tired, scared mother underneath.
"You're choosing to walk away from everything," she whispered. "You'll be disfellowshipped. You won't have a family."
"I haven't had me," Ellie said. "Not for a long time. I love you, Mom. But I won't go back. I won't be part of the church anymore."
A pause hung heavy between them. The engine idled.
Her mother stared straight ahead. "You don't get to just leave Jehovah."
"I already did," Ellie said. Her voice shook, but her spine stayed straight. "This is me choosing my own life."
She reached for the door handle.
Her mom didn't stop her.
As Ellie stepped back into the early morning light, she didn't cry. Not yet.
She walked down the shoulder of the road, bag over her shoulder, no map, no plan.
But for the first time in her life, the path was hers.