“Yeah,” I said, staring at the ceiling. “Same one, different faces.”
He reached for my hand in the dark. “You’re here,” he said. “You’re safe.”
The next morning, I went for a run and thought about something I hadn’t fully allowed myself to consider:
What if my parents breaking into the wrong house wasn’t just a crime?
What if it was the final, undeniable proof that cutting them off was necessary?
For years, I’d wrestled with doubt. Even after they disowned me, a part of me wondered if I’d been too harsh. Even after they demanded I sell my home, a part of me felt guilty for not rescuing Clara.
But baseball bats don’t happen by accident. Private investigators don’t happen by accident. Breaking windows and spray-painting walls doesn’t happen because you “just love your family so much.”
That kind of behavior comes from entitlement. From a belief that other people exist to serve you.
My family had always believed that about me. They just hadn’t been forced to face the ugliness of it until the law got involved.