He didn’t shout. He didn’t argue. He barely explained.
He just said I had to leave.
My brother’s channel was finally taking off. He needed my room for streaming. That was the whole reason.
My mother closed my suitcase over packs of newborn diapers and muttered that I should stop acting like a victim. It wasn’t a tragedy. I was exaggerating. I always did.
I stepped out into the street holding my newborn son.
They thought they were clearing space.
What they really did was spark something they couldn’t control.
While I was still in the hospital, stitches fresh and my body trembling from surgery, my father walked in wearing that serious expression he used for “important conversations.” He didn’t even glance at my baby.
He said that once I was discharged, I needed to figure out where I would stay.
Confused and foggy from medication, I asked what he meant. I lived at home.
He folded his arms and calmly explained that my brother, Lucas, needed my bedroom. His streaming career was growing. Sponsors were interested. Contracts were coming. His work was an investment. Mine? We’d see.
I looked down at Noah, two days old, and felt something tighten inside me.