“You could have asked me.”
My father’s face hardened. “We don’t need permission from a child. We raised you. You owe this family.”
There it was. The invoice they had been writing since I was born.
“If I’m dead to you,” I said quietly, “stop spending my life.”
Then I went to my room and packed.
Clothes. Laptop. Charger. Passport. Birth certificate. Social Security card. Pay stubs. The paperwork showing I had paid for the Toyota. The cash I had hidden in my drawer for the day something in that house finally broke.
My best friend, Hannah, answered my text almost immediately.
Can I stay with you tonight?
Yeah. No questions. Just come.
That was when I almost cried. Not because of my parents. Because someone had offered help without attaching a bill to it.
My mother appeared in my doorway while I zipped my duffel. “You’re being dramatic. Sleep on it and apologize tomorrow.”
My father stood behind her like a wall. “Put the bag down.”
I lifted it anyway.
“I’m not leaving because of one fight,” I said. “I’m leaving because you finally said the truth out loud.”
My mother folded her arms. “Don’t twist this.”
“You don’t get to call me family when you mean resource.”
Then I walked out.