Jason stood up. He was taller than me, broader, and he knew it. “Not anymore.”
“Give it back.”
“No.”
Dad stood as well, folding his arms. “You’ve been staying here for almost two years. Bills, food, utilities. Your mother and I decided this evens things out.”
“Evens things out?” My voice cracked. “You never asked me for rent.”
Mom gave a small shrug. “We shouldn’t have had to.”
I looked at each of them and saw no shame. Not even discomfort. Only relief—relief that they had taken what they wanted and no longer had to pretend I mattered.
Jason grabbed the suitcase, opened the front door, and shoved it onto the porch. Cold March air rushed in.
“You can go now,” he said. “And don’t come crawling back.”
My parents laughed behind him.
What they didn’t know—what none of them understood—was that the account Jason had emptied wasn’t truly mine to use freely. Most of that money had been placed there under a court-controlled arrangement after my aunt’s death, and every transaction was monitored.
