The night I lost my job, my sister shouted, “Who’s going to pay my car loan now?” Mom backed her up. Dad started packing my things. “Your sister needs this house more than you do.” I said nothing about the company in my name or the beach house. Hours later… it all collapsed.

I signed the severance papers without shaking—at least not until I reached my car. I sat there for eleven minutes, silent. No tears. No anger. Just the scent of leather seats I had paid for with a job that no longer existed. Then I called Evan Brooks, my business partner in a quiet side venture we’d been building for two years.

“I got laid off,” I told him.

He didn’t hesitate. “Then it’s time, Lauren. The Denver office is ready. When are you coming?”

I should have said immediately. Instead, I said I needed to go home first. I needed to tell my family—the same people I had financially supported for years—and see if they would offer me anything now that I couldn’t provide for them.

I didn’t know they had already begun mourning—not me, but the loss of my income.

The drive back to Millbrook felt heavier than usual. When I pulled into the gravel driveway, I counted the cars: my parents’, my sister Kayla’s SUV, Aunt Diane’s sedan, and Mrs. Collins from next door.

An audience.

I stepped inside, rehearsing calm words, but before I could speak, Kayla’s voice cut through the air.

“So, you really got fired?”

“Layoff,” I corrected.