I stood silently in the hallway listening. Gauze covered my face now, cool burn cream soothing the damaged skin. The urgent care doctor had photographed my injuries and written “thermal injury caused by hot liquid” in an official report that included my mother’s full name.
That report already sat in my lawyer’s inbox.
When I walked downstairs, my mother barely glanced at me.
“Keys,” she demanded.
I placed a single key on the table.
Violet frowned immediately. “That’s not the car key.”
“It’s the guest-room key.”
My mother narrowed her eyes. “Don’t get smart with me.”
I gave her a tired smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Then I walked out before either of them could stop me.
Outside, I sat inside my car for ten full minutes watching the house through the windshield.
My house.
The home Dad built before cancer turned him quiet and thin. The home where he taught me to read contracts at twelve years old because he always said, “People who understand paperwork don’t disappear.”
I started the engine.
Next »By the time my mother began calling, I was already checked into a hotel.
I ignored every call.
She rang twelve times. Violet texted thirty-one.
Ungrateful witch.
Bring the car back.
Mom says she’s changing the locks.
You’ll regret this.
I replied with only one message.
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