He didn’t yell.
He didn’t argue.
He didn’t explain much.
He simply said I had to leave.
Just like that. No buildup.
My brother’s channel was finally growing. He needed my room for his streams. That was it.
My mother zipped up my suitcase over the baby’s diapers with a sharp motion and muttered, annoyed, that I should stop playing the victim. That it wasn’t a big deal. That I was exaggerating, like always.
I walked out into the street with my newborn son in my arms.
They thought they had solved a problem.
In reality, they had just ignited something that could no longer be put out.
I still had fresh staples in my skin when my father opened the hospital room door with that serious expression he only used when he wanted to “have a real talk.” He didn’t even look at my son, sleeping beside me.
He said that as soon as I was discharged, I should start thinking about where I was going to stay.
I blinked, dazed from the painkillers. I asked what he meant—where else would I stay? I lived at home.