The words hit harder than I expected. Childless. As if the years of scraped knees, late-night talks, and standing in the rain at school events didn’t count. As if caring for his father until my hands ached and my back screamed hadn’t woven us into a family.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I nodded, went to bed, and stared at the ceiling until morning.
The next day, while he was out, I changed the locks.
It felt cruel and necessary all at once—like amputating something to stop the bleeding. I told myself I was choosing survival. I told myself I was protecting what little I had left.
To distract myself, I started clearing his room. I folded clothes, boxed up books, and tried not to think about how quiet the house felt again. When I bent to check under the bed, my fingers brushed against a small duffel bag shoved far back against the wall.
It had my name written on it.
My heart stuttered. I pulled it out and unzipped it with hands that suddenly didn’t feel like mine.
Inside was a savings account passbook.
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