“Dad’s right. You’ve always been embarrassing.” A pause. Then her next statement sounds almost gleeful. “At least now I don’t have to pretend to like you anymore.”
As my throat burns, I grip the duffel tighter. Keep packing. Keep moving.
“Not that I ever really did,” she adds with a mocking sigh. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”
I zip the bag while Frankie giggles. Like this is a game. Like she hasn’t spent our entire lives making sure I knew I would never be enough.
“You’re just so… pubescent.” She hums. “It’s kind of gross, honestly. How have you lived this way? I’d kill myself if I had to walk around like some scrawny little boy my whole life. If you cut your hair short, people literally wouldn’t know what you were.”
My fingers tighten around the strap. I don’t know why her words still land after all these years, but they do—sharp, efficient, practiced.
“Dad should’ve made you get them done the moment you turned eighteen. Before he allowed you to go to college. Imagine how much better your life would be.” She turns the door handle. “Well. Not that it matters now. Good luck out there, Minnie.”
Her footsteps retreat down the hall while I swallow the thick knot in my throat and sling the duffel over my shoulder.
I refuse to let Frankie’s words dig into my bones. I refuse to let my father’s rejection turn me to dust. I refuse to stay in this house one second longer.
My fingers close around Kepler’s cage. He’s a ferret, but probably more like an emotional support animal. Just one more thing my father and I fought over. He didn’t want any “rodents” in his house.
Kepler’s kind eyes stare into mine. At least someone still loves me.
And then I walk out of my bedroom and down the grand staircase, my duffel digging into my shoulder, Kepler’s cage clutched in my other hand.
I won’t miss this place one bit. The house is quiet. Too quiet. No voices. No bits of conversation. No sound of my father still pacing in his office, still furious over my defiance. No Luca hovering around the corner waiting to grab me.
Just the slow tick of the antique clock in the foyer.
The front door looms ahead. Twenty steps. Fifteen. Ten.
But before I can make my escape, I see her. My mother stands at the living room window, sipping her coffee. Statuesque. Sophisticated. So stunning she sometimes makes me want to look away.
The sight stops me in my tracks.
For half a second, I let myself believe she’s waiting for me. That she knew I’d come down, that she’s ready to tell me to stay. That she’ll say the words I’ve always needed to hear. That she’ll be the one person in this family who chooses me just becauseshe nurtured me inside her for nine months before bringing me into this world.
My throat tightens. My fingers clench around the strap of my bag.
“Mom,” I whisper.
She stares at something outside on the perfectly manicured lawn. The clock continues to tick off the seconds. Slowly, methodically. My jaw locks. She hears me. I know she does, so I wait.
For a second. A breath. A heartbeat.
I wait for her to turn.
I wait for her to say, “Don’t go.”
Instead, she exhales shakily—and says, barely audible, “You shouldn’t make him angry.”
Something inside me cracks. My pulse thrums, sharp and cold. I was stupid to hope. Stupid to believe.
So I just stare. How could it come to this? How could she be so callous to her own flesh and blood? Shifting the weight of Kepler’s cage in my hand, I adjust my grip. Then without another word, I walk past her.
She never turns around.
I never needed her to save me. I just needed her to see me.
The front door groans as I pull it open. Outside, the air is crisp, cold, and sharp against my skin. The Marino estate stands tall and oppressive behind me.
