“I didn’t let you—”
“Yes,” I snapped. “You did. You took away my choice.”
My mom’s voice softened.
“I need you to leave.”
“We were wrong too,” she said. “For cutting you off. For not reaching out. We thought we were protecting you, but we were protecting our image. I’m sorry.”
I didn’t have space in my head for her apology yet.
I put the papers on the table.
My hands were steady now.
He sobbed.
“I need you to leave,” I said to my husband.
His chin trembled.
“Where am I supposed to go?” he whispered.
I laughed once, sharp.
“That’s what I had to figure out at 17,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”
I packed for myself and our son.
He sobbed.
“Don’t do this,” he said. “We have a life. A child. Please.”
“I had a right to know who I was choosing,” I said. “You lied on day one. Everything after grew out of that lie.”
I went to our bedroom and pulled out a suitcase.
This time, I wasn’t a scared teenager.
My mom was silent, tears on her face.
I packed for myself and our son. Clothes. Important papers. His favorite stuffed dinosaur.
Our son was at a friend’s place.
On the drive over, I practiced what I’d say.
“Hey, buddy, we’re going to stay at Grandma and Grandpa’s for a bit.”
He’d never even met them.
“I love you.”
