The morning after the storm dawned clear and washed clean. Jenny woke with puffy eyes but a strange, settled calm. The truth was a weight, but it was her weight now. Not a secret others held over her.
At breakfast, Linda watched her carefully over the rim of her coffee cup. "You look like you didn't sleep."
"Storm kept me up," Jenny said, spreading jam on toast. Her voice was normal. Her hands were steady.
Henry glanced between them, sensing the shift but saying nothing.
"I was thinking," Jenny said, taking a bite. "About universities."
Linda's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"
"Stanford is too far. I don't want to be that far from… from here." She meant the lake house. The first place that felt like a haven. "I'm leaning toward Yale. Their debate team is exceptional. And they have a strong literature program."
She laid it out calmly, logically. Not as a plea for approval, but as a statement of intent.
Linda's eyes grew suspiciously bright. She nodded. "Yale is excellent. We can visit the campus in the fall."
"I'd like that."
"And the nationals in Boston?" Henry asked. "That's still on?"
"Of course." Jenny met his gaze. "I qualified. I'm going."
There was a new steel in her voice. Not defiance, but declaration.
Later that day, she called her debate coach from the landline in the hall.
"Jenny! I was wondering if you'd backed out. Your mother's secretary called, asking about travel details but seemed… vague."
"I'm not backing out," Jenny said, looking out at the sun-dappled lake. "I'll be there. Can you email all the information directly to me? I'll handle my own arrangements."
A pause. "Everything alright?"
"Everything's clear now," Jenny said. And it was.
The next two weeks were a blueprint for a new life. Jenny swam every morning, the cold water shocking her awake. She helped Henry fix a loose shutter, learning how to hold a hammer. She read novels Linda recommended, about adventurous women who carved their own paths.
She also researched.
In the lake house's small study, on Henry's old computer, she looked up legal emancipation for minors. Scholarship requirements. Student housing. She bookmarked pages on financial aid, part-time jobs for students, survival budgets.
She was building an escape plan. Not a dramatic runaway, but a careful, permanent exit.
One afternoon, Linda found her at the desk, a notepad covered in figures.
"Planning a bank heist?" Linda asked lightly, leaning in the doorway.
"A life," Jenny answered without looking up. "It's more complicated."
Linda came in, sitting on the edge of the desk. She looked at the numbers—projected dorm costs, meal plans, textbook estimates. "You know you don't have to do this alone. Henry and I, we have resources. We want to help."
Jenny put down her pen. "I know. And I'm grateful. But I need to know I can do it myself. That I'm not trading one form of dependence for another."
Linda studied her for a long moment. "You're so much older than sixteen."
"I had a head start."
The words were wry, but the truth behind them hurt. Linda's face softened with pain. "I wish it were different."
"Me too," Jenny said softly. "But it's not. So I'm working with what is."
That was her new mantra. Work with what is.
The end of July arrived, and with it, the trip to Boston for nationals. Linda and Henry drove her to the airport—a small, chaotic regional one, nothing like the private terminal the Thomases used.
At the departure gate, Linda hugged her tight. "Knock 'em dead, sweetheart. And call us when you land."
Henry squeezed her shoulder. "Proud of you, kid."
Jenny felt a lump in her throat. This was what it felt like. Having someone be proud of you, not for you. It was a warm, solid thing.
"Thank you. For everything."
She turned and walked to the gate, her backpack slung over one shoulder, her future feeling strangely, terrifyingly, like her own.
Boston - National Debate Championships
The hotel ballroom buzzed with nervous energy. Hundreds of the country's best high school debaters, their coaches, parents. Jenny moved through the crowd alone, a calm island in the storm. She'd checked herself in, found her room, reviewed her cases.
Her first opponent was a boy from a prep school in Connecticut, confident to the point of arrogance. He looked her up and down—her simple navy dress, her sensible shoes—and smirked.
"Ready to lose?" he asked as they took their positions.
Jenny just smiled. Not a polite smile. A sharp one. "Ready to talk."
Forty-five minutes later, she won on a unanimous decision. The boy left the room red-faced.
She won her next round. And the next.
On the third day, she made it to the semi-finals. As she walked out of another victorious round, a woman approached her—mid-forties, sharp-eyed, with a Yale faculty lanyard.
"Jennifer Thomas? I'm Professor Morrison. I've been watching your rounds. You have a remarkable clarity. A surgical precision with logic. And that closing rebuttal about systemic failure? Devastating."
"Thank you," Jenny said, shaking the offered hand.
"I'm the faculty advisor for the Yale debate team. We'd be very interested in having you. Have you committed anywhere?"
"Not yet."
"Good." Professor Morrison handed her a card. "Call me when you're ready to talk. And good luck in the finals. I'll be watching."
The encounter left Jenny buoyant. It was validation, but not the kind she'd craved from her father. This was professional. Earned. Based on her mind, not her bloodline.
The final debate was against a girl from Texas who was just as sharp, just as prepared. For an hour, they parried and thrusted, arguments flying. It was exhilarating. For the first time, Jenny wasn't fighting for approval. She was fighting for the joy of the fight itself.
When the judges announced the winner, it was the Texan by a narrow margin.
Second place nationally.
A rush of applause. The girl from Texas beamed, accepting the trophy. Jenny stood, clapping sincerely. She felt no bitterness, only a fierce, bright respect. She'd been bested, fairly.
After the ceremony, Professor Morrison found her again. "Brilliant performance. You made her work for it. That's the mark of a true debater."
"Thank you."
"The offer stands. Stronger, even."
Jenny nodded, tucking the card safely into her wallet, next to her emergency twenty-dollar bill. It felt like a key.
On the flight home, she didn't think about Thomas Manor. She thought about the lake. About the notebook full of facts. About Yale. She had a path. It was narrow, uphill, and hers alone.
But when Henry's car pulled up to the lake house that evening, another car was parked there—a sleek, black sedan that screamed city money.
Linda stood on the porch, arms crossed, face tense.
"What's wrong?" Jenny asked, getting out, her duffel in hand.
Before Linda could answer, the front door opened, and Jonas Thomas stepped out.
He looked older than he had two weeks ago. Thinner. His eyes found Jenny, and a complicated storm of emotions passed through them—guilt, shame, a desperate hope.
"Jenny," he said, his voice rough. "We need to talk."
The calm she'd carried from Boston evaporated. The cold space inside iced over.
"About what?" Her voice was flat.
"About coming home."
Linda moved to stand beside Jenny. "She is home, Jonas."
He ignored her, his eyes pleading with Jenny. "Your mother… she's not well. She misses you. We all do. What happened at dinner… it was a misunderstanding. We can do better. Please."
He was begging. The great Jonas Thomas, reduced to pleading on a porch in the woods.
Jenny looked past him, into the warm, lit windows of the lake house. She thought of her notebook. Fact: I belong only to myself.
She looked back at her father. At the man who couldn't see her until she left.
"No," she said.
The word was quiet. Final.
He flinched. "Jenny, I'm your father—"
"Are you?" The question hung in the twilight. "You've never acted like it. You had sixteen years. You don't get more."
"I made mistakes—"
"You didn't make mistakes, Dad. You made choices. Every day. You chose Evelyn. You chose your guilt. You chose the easy silence over the hard work of seeing me." She took a step forward, and to her surprise, he took a step back. "I'm not coming back. I'm going to Yale. I'm building my own life. You can be part of it if you can learn to see me. Really see me. But I won't wait for you. And I won't live in your house again."
Jonas stared at her, his face crumbling. He looked like a man who'd just realized the bridge was burned behind him, and he was stranded on the wrong side.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words broken.
"I know," Jenny said. And she did. But sorry wasn't enough. Not anymore.
She picked up her duffel, walked past him, and into the lake house. Linda followed, closing the door firmly behind them.
Through the window, Jenny watched her father stand alone on the porch for a long time, a silhouette against the darkening pines. Then he got into his car and drove away, the headlights cutting twin paths through the night.
She didn't feel victorious. She felt tired. And free.
Henry came into the room, holding the cordless phone. "It's Harry for you."
Jenny took it. "Hey."
"Hey." Her brother's voice was strained. "Dad just got back. He's a wreck. Did you really say no?"
"Yes."
A long exhale. "Good."
The simple support brought sudden tears to her eyes. "Harry…"
"I get it, Jen. I see it now. I should have seen it sooner. I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"It's not. But I'm going to do better. I'm here, okay? Always."
"Okay."
They hung up. Jenny stood in the quiet living room, the phone in her hand. She had fragments of a family. A brother. A grandmother. A kind step-grandfather. It wasn't the whole picture, but it was something real.
She walked to her room, took out her notebook, and on a fresh page, she began a new list.
What I am building:
1. Independence.
2. A future at Yale.
3. A life on my own terms.
She underlined the last one three times.
Outside, the loons called on the lake. A lonely, beautiful sound.
Jenny Thomas, the invisible daughter, was gone.
Jenny, the architect of her own life, was just beginning.