I looked at the number.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
That was a car. That was a year of college tuition. And they had done it in three days without asking me.
That afternoon, I unblocked my phone. I had forty-seven voicemails.
One was from Marcus.
“Bella, you better fix this. Dad is losing his mind. You’re acting out of control. Just let them finish the work. It’s for the family.”
One was from my mom.
“I don’t know who you think you are. After everything we did for you, raising you, you treat us like criminals. You are an ungrateful child.”
Ungrateful.
That was the word that did it.
I had given them a house. I had given them everything. And because I stopped them from taking more, I was ungrateful.
I called Mr. Henderson.
“Draft the papers,” I said.
My voice was steady.
“Which ones?” he asked.
“All of them,” I said. “The demand for repayment and the eviction notice for the bungalow. Give them thirty days.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I’m sure.”
“They are going to fight you,” he warned. “They will try to emotionally manipulate you. They will use the rest of the family against you.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m ready.”
I was not ready. I was terrified.
But I knew that if I did not do this, I would never be free. I would be their servant forever.
I set up a meeting. I sent a text to the family group chat.
Me: Meet me at the bungalow on Saturday at 2 p.m. We are going to talk.
Dad: Finally, you’re coming to your senses.
Marcus: Better bring your checkbook. We have contractors to pay.
I stared at the screen.
They thought I was coming to apologize. They thought I was coming to surrender.
They had no idea I was coming to say goodbye.
Driving to the house I bought for my parents felt different this time.
Usually, when I drove down that street, I felt a sense of pride. I would look at the manicured lawn and the fresh paint and think, I did that. I took care of them.
Today, I felt like I was driving into a trap.
I parked my car on the street, not in the driveway. I did not want to be blocked in.
I checked my bag one last time. I had the folder, the evidence, and the legal documents my lawyer, Mr. Henderson, had drafted.
My hands were cold, even though it was a warm day.
I took a deep breath, stared at myself in the rearview mirror, and said out loud, “Do not cry. Do not back down.”
I walked up the path. I used my key to open the door, but the chain was on.
I had to ring the doorbell of my own house.
My mother opened it. She did not smile. She did not hug me. She looked at me with a mix of disappointment and impatience.
“You’re late,” she said, stepping back to let me in.
“It’s two p.m. exactly,” I said.
“Just come in,” she sighed. “Everyone is waiting in the living room.”
I walked into the living room.
It was set up like an intervention.
My father was sitting in his favorite armchair, the leather recliner I bought him for his sixtieth birthday. Marcus was sitting on the sofa, his arms crossed, looking at the ceiling.
Jennifer, his pregnant girlfriend, was sitting next to him, rubbing her belly and looking at me with wide, judgmental eyes.
There was a single wooden chair placed in the center of the room, facing them.
It looked like a witness stand.
“Sit down, Isabella,” my father said.