I looked between them, these strangers wearing my parents’ faces, and I felt something in me crack—not loud, not dramatic, but deep. Like a tree splitting at the core.
“I’m not giving her my money,” I said quietly.
My dad pushed his chair back. “Then get out of our house,” he said. “And don’t come back.”
So I did.
I walked out into the crisp October air with my cheeks burning, climbed into my car, and drove back to my studio apartment in silence. The streetlights blurred as I went. At home, I sat on my bed—the same bed that was also my couch and my dining chair—and stared at the whiteboard that said 120,000.
The number looked different now.
It didn’t look like a door. It looked like a target.
The next day, I changed my phone number. I blocked their emails. I told mutual friends I didn’t want messages passed back and forth. If my parents wanted to erase me over money, I would make it official.
The weeks after were strange. Grief came in waves, but so did relief. There were no more Saturdays spent bracing for Clara’s moods. No more subtle comments about how I should “help out more.” No more pressure disguised as love.