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And when Evan suggested coming to town for my birthday last week? I became insufferable. As much as I tried to hide it, I couldn’t. It was impossible to keep to myself.

When my mom asked, I blamed it on how thrilled I was to finish my last year at high school and all the ‘new challenges’ awaiting me. My dad is barely home enough to notice anything apart from his beer supply or whether Mom cooked dinner.

I lay awake so many times, picturing how our first meeting would go. From falling into his arms to being catfished by a fifty-year-old-man after all, I went through every damn scenario.

Reality turned out so much better than I could have imagined.

I don’t even notice the scenery flying past me, driving on autopilot while humming along to the radio, drumming my ice-cold fingers against the steering wheel, as I replay every second of this afternoon in my head, until I pull into our driveway and hit the brakes with fifteen minutes to spare.

Two moving boxes are sitting on the front lawn. Why are there two moving boxes sitting on the front lawn? Did Ella declutter her closet again?

It’s about time. The thing is about to burst with all the clothes, bags and accessories in there she ‘had to have’ to fit in at school. Maybe I can snag one of her band shirts.

With a shrug, I turn off the car, jump out, make my way to the door with a spring in my step, and fumble my key out of my pocket.

"Huh?" I try to unlock the front door again, but the key doesn’t even go into the keyhole. “What the-?”

I try again, but to no avail.

"Hello?" I shout and ring the doorbell. Why the hell isn't my key working? And why the hell is no one answering? It was dad, who insisted on going out for my birthday. He never mentioned changing the locks or…

My blood runs cold. My heart beats so loud, it even drowns out my fist pounding on the door.

What the fuck is going on. Where are they?

I take a few steps back and scan the windows. All the blinds are drawn. No light on. Fuck. Please, someone tell me this is not happening.

I stumble back further.

No. No, no, no.

Fuck.

This isn’t real. It can’t be.

I sprint back to the two boxes next to my car and tear them open. My clothes. The stuffed toy from my bed.

And my tablet. Screen shattered.

The very tablet I know is logged into the account I use to message Evan because I was too chickenshit to keep it on my phone. I’m approaching my finals, so I can’t exactly jump at every notification.

"Fuck." I curse and sink to my knees, jeans hitting the freshly fallen snow. It soaks my pants within seconds, but I couldn’t give less of a fuck.

My throat burns with emotion, because the realization settles on my shoulders with the weight of a brick wall.

They know.

I was going to tell them. One day when it was safe to do so. Later this year, once I settled in at university, found a job, and figured out a way to pay my tuition and bills.

But now? I can kiss university life goodbye. Because this right here is all I have left. The measly savings I have from my part-time job at the supermarket won’t get me very far.

My eyes sting with tears, fingers trembling with the cold when I notice a letter sitting on the second box. Snowflakes melted on the envelope, but I can still make out my name in Dad's scrawly handwriting on it.

With numb fingers, I open it and unfold a letter, skimming the few words he left me with.

No son of mine associates with other men.

I can almost picture the disgust on his face as I stare at the deep imprinted lines his pen left on the paper.