I hadn’t thought much beyond the act itself. Withdraw. Stabilize my own life. Build something.
Now, small possibilities started to sprout in the cracks my family’s absence left behind.
I found a job two weeks later, at a mid-sized marketing firm downtown. My degree wasn’t glamorous—Business Administration with a minor in data analytics—but apparently, knowing how to read spreadsheets and not freak out in front of clients was valuable.
The salary wasn’t huge, but it was more money, consistently, than I’d ever had at once. It came with benefits, too—health insurance that wasn’t tethered to my parents, and a 401(k) I stared at blankly while HR explained matching percentages.
On my first day, I wore the only decent blazer I owned and carried a thrifted leather bag Ava had given me as a graduation gift.
The office smelled like coffee and printer ink. People milled around in business-casual outfits, juggling laptops and iced lattes. My supervisor, a woman named Claire in her thirties with sharp eyeliner and sharper wit, shook my hand.
“Emma, right?” she said. “We’re glad to have you. I’ve read your portfolio. You’re the first intern who actually seems to know how to build a budget that doesn’t look like a toddler scribbled on Excel.”
“High praise,” I said. “Toddlers are surprisingly good with patterns.”
She laughed. “You’ll fit in fine.”
At lunch, when everyone else took calls from spouses and parents and group chats, I sat on a bench outside with my sandwich and my phone, scrolling through the familiar faces on social media.
My mother’s account was quiet. No Italy content, obviously. She’d posted a throwback photo of Lily from her first ballet recital with a caption about “watching her grow into the woman she was always meant to be.”
My graduation day still wasn’t mentioned.
My father’s Facebook had a screenshot of a meme about “ungrateful kids these days” layered over a picture of a boomer shaking his fist at the sky.
Lily’s Instagram, as Mia had promised, was a masterpiece of fiction. Photos of gelato cups, cobbled streets, sweeping city views—all neatly credited “Rome, Italy” and “Florence, Italy” with captions like, “Ciao bella!” and “So obsessed with this place.”
I recognized half of them from travel bloggers I’d followed for years.
The comments were full of heart emojis and envy.
