"Run away."

Those two words; said quietly, but firmly, stunned me. I can't remember another time in my whole life that I had ever been stunned.
Not at 15, when I was told I was pregnant.
Not at 20, when I was told my son had Autism.

Both life changing events, but neither stunned me. They should have, but I just shrugged and moved forward.
No stunned silence, no shocked tears; just a pleasant smile, a polite nod, and a nice 'Thank you.'

Now at 26; I was slouched in a chair, mouth open to say....nothing, absolutely nothing. My mind has basically deserted me at this one word.

Obviously feeling guilty at leaving me, my mind slunk back to give me the ability to say, "What?"

Dear Brain,
You suck at words! Get a dictionary!
Love forever,
Laura

I looked to my mother, who seemed to still be recovering, then to the woman who had started the unexpected meltdown.

The woman leaned back in her chair and repeated, "Run away."

Shrugging, she set aside all the papers that had been between us and her. Setting her hands on the table, palm up, she smiled. "Change your address, and change your numbers." She looked from me to my mother. "Land and cell."
I was looking at her hands when she flipped them palm down. "We will make everything else go away."

I continued to stare at her hands as the silence descended and stretched its way through the room. The only thing that broke my stare was the appearance of my mothers hand to grab a tissue from the box sitting to my side. I looked at her startled, my mother doesn't cry.
She didn't cry when my grandmother died.
She didn't cry when we were forced out of our beloved home state because of work.
She didn't even cry when I told her I was pregnant, nor did she cry at the birth.
My mother doesn't cry.

Yet there she was, red eyes and tears. She wasn't like that five minutes ago.

I looked to the floor then to the woman seated across from us. A deep breath helped me regain a bit of my voice. I couldn't help but look at my son outside the window, he was exploring the parking lot with the help of my uncle. "How long do we have?

"Four months." The response was immediate and definitive.
I took another deep breath and nodded. "What do we do now?"

A paper was handed to us. "Sign, date, initial."

And then it was over. My mother and I were left to ourselves. She looked to me confused, "What are we going to do?"

I get her a half smile that I was sure didn't reach my eyes. "Run away."