Subscriptions.
Cassie had asked me to temporarily cover the shared Netflix tied to my email, the grocery card linked to mom’s number, the insurance payment.
Dad swore he’d reimburse me for in February.
It wasn’t about the money.
It was about the pattern, the quiet entitlement, the way they painted themselves as the injured party the second I didn’t fall in line.
At 3:13 p.m., Cassie called again.
I let it ring once before silencing it.
Then another text buzzed in.
“You’re going to regret this.”
That one stuck with me.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t in all caps.
It didn’t come with 20 angry emojis, but something about the way she phrased it, not you’re hurting me, but you’re going to regret this, spoke volumes.
It wasn’t about being abandoned.
It was about losing access to a room, a buffer, a backup plan.
They weren’t there because they missed me.
They were there because I’d stopped being useful.
I watched them for another 20 minutes before I saw Dad open the trunk of the car.
One by one, the boxes went back in.
Cassie didn’t help.
She stood on the sidewalk, arms dangling at her sides, face locked in a grimace that would have looked like heartbreak to anyone who didn’t know better.
Mom finally broke first, getting into the front seat without a word.
Dad followed.
Cassie lingered the longest, sending one final glance toward the building before she too climbed in.
The car sat there for a full minute before pulling away.
I didn’t move.
Not yet.
When I finally drove home, my home, the new one, the one no one had ever visited.
I walked in with the strange feeling of having watched my old life from the outside.
The door closed with a soft click behind me, and I stood there in the silence.
The air smelled like basil from the little plant I kept on the window sill.