“Think about it,” she pressed, voice sliding into that false concern tone she used with customer service reps. “She’s clearly… unstable right now. All this anger she’s carrying? It’s unhealthy. A little time away could be good for her mental health.”
My mental health.
The only thing making me mentally ill was the constant gaslighting and years of being treated like a live-in maid.
On the phone, Dad sighed.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “I’ll talk to her about moving out for college. It might be… better for everyone.”
I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood.
My own father. The one who’d let me crawl into his bed for years after Mom died because I couldn’t sleep alone. The one I’d cooked for and cleaned for and cared for. Agreeing to help push me out of my own house.
I pulled my phone out and hit record.
One-party consent state. I’d googled that after living with Tracy this long. You learn to protect yourself.
I slipped back into my room until the call ended.
Then I walked downstairs like I hadn’t heard a thing.