“At least it is breezy up there,” he said, trying to sound light while failing completely.
Breezy was not the word I would have used, because the attic held a thin metal roof, a folding bed, stacked boxes, and a dying fan that groaned like it had given up years ago.
My father folded his newspaper and looked over his glasses, his expression already tired of a conversation that had barely begun.
“Do not start with drama, Rachel, we are already doing enough by letting you stay here,” he said firmly.
I nodded because I knew my place in their version of the family, which was the daughter who never quite succeeded, the one who stayed behind while others moved forward.
“Yes, Dad,” I answered quietly before walking to my old room to gather a few things.
Once the door closed behind me, I finally exhaled, letting the silence wrap around me like something safe.
They believed I was the same person who returned home eighteen months ago after losing a job, someone lost and drifting without direction.
They had no idea that inside this room I had spent months building a logistics platform line by line, something that had been purchased just the previous afternoon.