I told him, and as I spoke, his expression shifted from confusion to shock to a kind of quiet fury.
“That’s insane,” he said. “They could have gotten themselves killed. Or killed someone else.”
“I know,” I whispered. My hands were shaking. “They thought it was my house.”
Julian sat beside me and took my hand like he could anchor me to the couch.
“What do you need?” he asked.
I stared at the wall, seeing my mother’s proud face when she said private investigator, hearing my father’s voice saying you’re no longer part of this family.
“I need this to be real,” I said softly. “I need there to be consequences that don’t magically disappear because they’re my parents.”
And for the first time, I said something out loud that I’d never dared to say before, even in my own head.
“I don’t think they love me,” I said. “Not in the way parents are supposed to.”
Julian didn’t argue. He didn’t say, I’m sure they do, deep down. He just squeezed my hand tighter.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”