“No,” I said firmly. “They’re related to me. Family doesn’t abandon you and then show up demanding money. Family doesn’t hire private investigators to stalk you. Family doesn’t break into houses with baseball bats because they don’t get their way.”
Julian was sitting across from me, listening. When I hung up, he reached for my hand.
“I’m proud of you,” he said.
The words made my eyes sting. Proud was not something my parents said to me unless it served a narrative.
In the months that followed, my life kept moving forward in a way that almost felt rude, like the universe hadn’t gotten the memo that my family was imploding.
Work was going well. I got a big promotion—one of those moments I would’ve once driven to my parents’ house to celebrate, craving their approval like oxygen. Instead, Julian took me out for dinner, toasted me with a cheap but bubbly bottle of champagne, and told me I’d earned it.
We started seriously house hunting in his area. Not because I needed a place to prove myself anymore, but because we wanted a shared future. A home that belonged to us, not to my family’s leverage.