The thought settled in my chest like ice.
I ignored Dylan's frantic shouting behind me, didn't look back, and got on the bus.
I'd barely walked through my front door—hadn't even had a sip of water—when my older sister called.
"Grace Lawson, did you and Dylan have a fight?"
Before I could get a word out, Patricia Lawson sent me a screenshot from social media.
It was a post from my son.
The post read: Now I finally understand—you're the only real family I'll ever have.
Below it, Muriel had left a comment dripping with sarcasm: Some people think they can financially abuse their own son, but all they're doing is pushing him further away.
Memo to certain people: we're strong, independent women now. Your little power trips don't work on us.
I couldn't even hear what Patricia was saying on the other end of the line anymore. Shaking with anger, I opened Dylan's chat.
His social media feed showed nothing.
I typed out a message and hit send. A red exclamation mark popped up beside it.
I stared at the screen. Then I laughed—the kind of laugh that came from being so furious there was nowhere left for the anger to go.
I spoke into the phone.