part 3
The sound of the heavy paper ripping felt like gunshots in the quiet kitchen.
My mother let out a sharp, ear-piercing shriek—the sound of a woman watching her last remaining lifeline burn right in front of her eyes. She lunged forward, grabbing my wrists with surprising strength for someone who had spent the last decade complaining about arthritis.
"Stop it! Stop it, you ungrateful little monster!" she cried, shaking me back and forth. "We raised you! We fed you! We let you live in our guest house for three months after Callum died when you had nowhere else to go!"
"You charged me twelve hundred dollars a month rent for a drafty room with a leaking roof," I reminded her, pulling my wrists free with a sharp jerk. "And you made Wren share a twin mattress on the floor. Let's not rewrite history, Mom. You were running a boarding house, not a charity."
Dad stood up, his face flushed dark crimson, the veins in his temples bulging against his white hair. "Maren Elizabeth Vale! Show some respect to your mother right now, or so help me God, you will never set foot in this house again!"
I let out a cold, humorless laugh that made him flinch.
"Dad, you're a bit late on that threat. Talia and Mom already made sure I'm never setting foot here again. Remember? 'Leave and never return.' Those were the exact words."
I turned my back on them, sweeping the first two envelopes off the island and tucking them securely inside my leather crossbody bag. I didn't want to burn those two; I wanted to keep them as a monument to what happens when you mistake kindness for weakness.
"Wren," I called out toward the hallway. "We're leaving."
"Coming, Mom!" her small voice chirped back instantly.
Footsteps padded quickly across the hardwood floor, and a second later, Wren appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing her red winter coat, zipped all the way to her chin, and her miniature pink backpack was slung over one shoulder. She looked around the room, taking in my mother’s tear-streaked face, Talia’s trembling, furious expression, Beckett’s frozen posture, and my father’s thunderous scowl.
She didn't look scared anymore. She looked like a soldier who had just received orders to retreat from a lost battlefield.
"Did you forget your casserole dish, Mom?" Wren asked innocently, pointing to the Pyrex dish still sitting on the dining room table, half-full of sweet potato bake with toasted marshmallows on top.
"No, baby," I said, taking her small, cold hand in mine. "We're leaving that behind, too. I'm sure Christmas dinner is much better without it."
"Hey! You can't just leave us like this!" Talia screamed, lunging around the kitchen island as if she intended to physically block the doorway.
Beckett caught her by the elbow, pulling her back with a harsh hiss. "Talia, stop! Don't make it worse! Look at her eyes—she's completely unhinged!"
"Unchained, you mean," I corrected him, stepping past them into the brightly lit hallway.
The Christmas tree in the living room twinkled merrily, casting colored lights across the walls that felt entirely mocking now. The smell of roasted turkey now just smelled like cheap hypocrisy and rotting relationships.
We walked to the front door. I pulled it open, letting the cold December air rush into the foyer like a cleansing wave. The night sky outside was clear, peppered with sharp winter stars that burned like white-hot diamonds against the black velvet expanse.
"Maren! Please!" My mother’s voice cracked from the kitchen doorway, reduced to a pathetic, ragged whine. "We're family! You can't let us lose the house! The bank will take everything! We'll be living out of our car by New Year's!"
I stopped on the threshold, turning my head back just enough to look at her one last time.
"Then I suggest you start packing," I said.
May you like
I stepped outside, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind me with a solid, final click.
The sound of the latch engaging felt like the closing of a tomb. Or, more accurately, the opening of a prison door.
