I pulled out my suitcase. Slowly, carefully, I began to pack—not for them, but for me. For the first time in twenty-five years, I was packing for my own freedom. I folded clothes, slipped in my sketchbooks, and tucked away the little trinkets that reminded me of a dream I once had, a dream they had stolen but I refused to let die completely.
I tossed memories into the trash—photographs, broken jewelry, fake tokens of “love.” All lies.
Then the door creaked open. Jackson. My son. His eyes narrowed at the sight of my suitcase.
“Why are you packing?” he scoffed. “You’re not coming.”
I turned to him, voice calm though my heart trembled. “No. I know I’m not. But I’m also going somewhere. Since all of you are leaving me behind.”
He barked a laugh, and Coreen, clinging to his side, giggled too. “And where are you gonna go? You don’t even have money. Do you think we’re going to give you some? You’ve got nothing.”
I looked him straight in the eyes, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“I’m not getting money from you.”