That was the extent of Tyler’s attempt to make things right.
A shrug.
I moved out the next morning.
My dad didn’t help me carry anything.
My mom stood in the kitchen doorway and told me I was making a huge mistake and that I’d come crawling back within a month.
Tyler didn’t even come downstairs.
I loaded everything into my truck in three trips, drove to Greg’s apartment, and started the next chapter of my life.
The first few weeks were rough.
I won’t sugarcoat it.
Greg’s apartment was small.
My room barely fit a twin mattress and a desk.
And I was suddenly paying real rent and real utilities on top of the student loans I was still chipping away at.
I ate a lot of rice and canned soup.
I picked up a second gig doing freelance bookkeeping on weekends just to keep my head above water.
But here’s the thing nobody tells you about starting over.
It’s hard, but it’s yours.
Every dollar I earned went toward my life.
Nobody was eating my food or stealing my money or making me feel guilty for existing.
For the first time in 26 years, my home felt like my home.
I went no contact with my family for the first two weeks, which was the longest I’d ever gone without talking to them.
My mom called twice, left messages that started concerned and ended annoyed.
My dad didn’t call at all.
Tyler sent me one text that said, “You’re being ridiculous, bro.”
And I didn’t respond.
About 3 weeks after I moved out, I got a call from my mom.
Her voice was different this time.
Not angry, not dismissive.
Worried.
She said she needed to talk to me about something important and asked if I could come over for dinner on Sunday.
I said no.
She pushed.
I said no again.
She finally told me what was going on over the phone.
And I wish I could say I was shocked, but I really wasn’t.
$6,000 was missing from my dad’s safe.
My dad kept cash in a fireproof safe in the master bedroom closet.
It was where he stashed emergency funds, some insurance payout money, and cash he’d been slowly saving for a fishing boat he’d been talking about buying since I was in middle school.
The safe had a combination lock, and according to my mom, only my dad knew the combination.
Except that wasn’t true, was it?
Because Tyler had been living in that house with nothing but time and zero boundaries for years.
And if there’s one thing Tyler was good at, it was watching and waiting and taking what he wanted when nobody was looking.
My mom swore up and down that Tyler denied it.
Of course he did.
She said my dad was looking into it and that they didn’t want to jump to conclusions.
Which was parent code for, “We know exactly who did this, but we’re not ready to face it.”
She asked me if I had any idea who could have done it.
I almost choked on my own tongue.
“Are you seriously asking me that?” I said. “You’re asking the son who got forced to apologize for being robbed if he has any theories about who might have committed the second robbery?”
She was quiet for a long time.
Then she said, “This is different, John. This is $6,000.”
I said, “So $400 wasn’t enough to matter, but $6,000 is? Good to know there’s a dollar amount where Tyler’s behavior becomes a problem.”
She didn’t have an answer for that.
I told her I had to go.
I hung up the phone, sat down on my secondhand couch, and I’ll be honest with you guys.
I didn’t feel triumphant.
I didn’t feel vindicated.
I just felt tired.
Tired and sad for a family that couldn’t see what was right in front of them until it cost them six grand.
The weeks after that phone call were a strange kind of quiet.
I kept my distance from my family and focused on the only thing I had control over, which was my own life.
And look, I’m not going to sit here and tell you I had some movie montage where I went from struggling to thriving overnight with an inspirational soundtrack playing in the background.