The accusation felt unreal.
I thought of overtime shifts.
Missed birthdays.
Vacations I never took.
Crying silently in the bathroom at work before forcing myself back out with a smile.
She wasn’t done.
“Trevor is the only one I can rely on,” she added, lifting her chin proudly. “He has a heart. He never throws things in my face. You don’t.”
Trevor.
Who had paid nothing.
Who had thanked me for nothing.
Something twisted painfully in my chest—not rage yet, but something worse.
“Pack your things from the guest room,” she said flatly. “You’re leaving. Saturday.”
I drove home numb, desperately searching for excuses.
Maybe she was overwhelmed.
Maybe Trevor had manipulated her.
Maybe this would make sense later.
It didn’t.
On moving day, the truth shattered every illusion I had protected them with.
I pulled into the driveway with a rented pickup and cardboard boxes. The house felt unfamiliar—like I was trespassing in a place that no longer knew me.
