My mother even crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair, wearing that same confident smile I used to recognize from childhood—the one that said she believed she had everything under control.
“Relax, Olivia,” she told me casually, as if we had shared years of warmth and trust instead of silence and distance. “We’re family. Of course everything will be divided fairly.”
My father nodded beside her, arms folded, posture relaxed, like he was already calculating numbers in his head.
Watching them like that felt surreal.
Because the last time I had seen that same certainty in their faces… I was sixteen years old. And they were standing in the doorway of our tiny rental house just outside Milwaukee, bags packed, ready to leave.
They didn’t cry. They didn’t hesitate.
They left me behind with an empty fridge, unpaid bills, and a single note taped to the counter telling me to “figure things out.”
And somehow… I did.
Just not in the way they ever imagined.
Back then, when everything fell apart, there was only one person who stepped in.
My uncle—Jonathan Parker.
He didn’t show up with comforting words or soft reassurances. He didn’t hug me or tell me everything would be okay.