I threw myself into work. When you cut off the people who raised you, the quiet is deafening. I filled it with code, deadlines, and long runs at night with my earbuds blasting angry music.
One year later, I bought the craftsman.
The hardwood floors were even more beautiful than I remembered. The morning sunlight still poured into the kitchen like a blessing. I set up my home office in the spare bedroom and bought a secondhand desk that wobbled slightly but felt like a throne compared to the cramped corner I used to work in.
The first night I slept there, the house was so quiet I could hear the refrigerator hum. I lay in bed and waited for the panic, the loneliness, the regret.
Instead I felt peace.
For five years, I lived without them. Five peaceful, drama-free years. I got promoted twice. I learned how to make real meals. I hosted friends for game nights. I planted herbs in the backyard and killed half of them but kept trying anyway.