While I was at work, my parents, my sister, and her two kids were already hauling boxes into my mountain house. Mom smiled like it was settled. “We all live here now. It’s family property.” They planned their big “move-in day.” I planned something else.

Even now, my mind replayed the months leading up to the restraining order—the texts, the CPS call, the break-in attempt, the lawsuit. My family’s voices still echoed somewhere deep inside, even if they could no longer reach me.

“I saw your mother and father yesterday,” she continued carefully. “They didn’t look well.”

My chest tightened—not with guilt, but with a complicated blend of old instinct and new understanding.

“What happened?” I asked.

“They parked outside the grocery store in town,” she said. “She was crying in the passenger seat. He looked exhausted. Some people walked by and whispered. The restraining order made the rounds, apparently.”

I swallowed.

“Do they hate me?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I think they’re ashamed. And when people are ashamed, they lash out.”

I nodded slowly.

I didn’t feel triumphant hearing they were struggling. There was no satisfaction, no thrill in their discomfort. Just a distant ache, like touching an old bruise.

But I also didn’t feel responsible for it.

Not anymore.

“They’ll have to face the consequences of their choices,” she said. “You can’t live your life carrying the weight of theirs.”

“I’m trying to believe that,” I said quietly.