My dad saw me limping down the street, my baby in one arm and the shopping bags in the other, and asked, “Where’s your car?” When I whispered, “His mom took it… she said I should be grateful they’re letting us stay,” Dad didn’t argue. He opened the car door and said, “Get in. We’re going to sort this out tonight.” And they had no idea who my father was…

“You can,” Dad replied. “Emily has been contributing more than you think. She doesn’t need saving. She needs space.”

Tears blurred my vision because he was right.

I had been shrinking myself. Making myself smaller so I wouldn’t “cause trouble.”

Dad turned to me.

“It’s your choice. But you’re not staying anywhere that makes you feel less than.”

Linda’s face hardened. “If you leave, don’t expect help.”

For the first time, that didn’t scare me.

It freed me.

Noah began fussing in the car. Dad lifted him gently.

“Looks like we’re going home, buddy,” he murmured.

Home.

Not “their house.”

Home.

I looked at Daniel.

“You can come with us,” I said softly. “But I’m done being grateful just to survive.”

Linda laughed sharply.

Daniel looked between us, then at his mother.

“Mom,” he said slowly, “give her the keys.”

She hesitated.

“Give. Her. The keys.”

With a frustrated huff, she pulled them from her purse and tossed them. They hit the ground.

Dad bent down, picked them up, and placed them carefully in my hand.

“Never accept someone throwing what’s yours,” he said quietly.

Daniel took a long breath.

“I’m coming with you.”

Linda stepped back as if he’d betrayed her.

“You’re leaving?”

“I’m growing up,” he answered.