“I haven’t bought a new game in two years. I eat takeout once a week because nobody saves dinner for me when I work late.”
Grandma’s eyes moved toward Mom.
Mom looked away.
Grandpa stood. “Get your coat.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You’re coming with us tonight.”
Dad’s chair scraped backward. “Absolutely not.”
Grandpa turned to him. “He is twenty-six years old.”
“He lives under my roof.”
Grandpa’s voice went cold. “And that roof was paid for with help from me. Don’t test my memory, Richard.”
For the first time all night, Dad had nothing to say.
Grandpa looked back at me. “Pack what you need for a few days. Tomorrow, we talk about the rest.”
Mom started crying harder. “You’re breaking this family apart.”
Grandpa looked at her sadly.
“No, Linda. I’m just opening the basement door.”
PART 3
I packed everything in fifteen minutes.
That was the part that hurt more than I thought it would. Twenty-six years of living, seven years of paying rent, and everything I actually needed fit into two duffel bags and one backpack.
A few clothes. My laptop. My work badge. A shoebox holding my birth certificate, Social Security card, and car title. A framed picture of Grandma and Grandpa from my high school graduation. Three books I had never found time to finish.
I stood in the doorway of the basement and looked around.
The room was tidy but cold. The walls were gray because Dad had once said white paint cost too much for a basement nobody ever saw. My bed sat against the far wall. A cheap desk was tucked beneath the tiny ceiling-level window. Each morning, sunlight entered as a narrow rectangle across the carpet, just enough to remind me there was still a world above me.
For years, I told myself it was temporary.
Temporary turned into seven years.
When I came upstairs, Mom was on the couch with Owen sleeping against her side. Claire stood in the kitchen, whispering angrily into her phone. Dad waited near the front door with his arms crossed.
“You walk out tonight,” Dad said, “don’t come crawling back when you realize the real world costs more than eight hundred dollars.”
Grandpa stepped forward before I could respond.
“The real world also lets him keep his dignity.”
Dad glared at him. “You always thought I was a bad father.”
Grandpa’s expression stayed steady. “No. I thought you were a proud man who hated being wrong. Tonight, you’re proving me right.”
Mom suddenly stood. “Ethan, please. Don’t leave like this.”
Her voice cracked, and for one second, I almost folded.
That was how it always happened. Dad yelled. Claire complained. Mom cried. And I gave in.
But then I remembered every time I had asked for something small.
Could I skip babysitting because I had a work presentation the next morning?
Claire needed me.
