“A few documents,” she said quickly. “Just… family matters. Your father and I want to make sure you’re protected.”
Protected.
I almost laughed. My mother had never protected me from anything, not even my sister’s cruelty, not even my father’s coldness. But I swallowed the sound, because I’d already decided something the second I saw that screenshot.
I wasn’t going alone.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll come by.”
“Good,” my mother exhaled with relief. “And Alyssa—let’s not talk about this with anyone else. Keep it private.”
There it was again.
Private.
When I ended the call, I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just sat there in the dead quiet of my apartment until the sun rose, turning the room pale and unforgiving.
Then I called Simon.
He answered on the second ring. “They asked you to come in, didn’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” His voice didn’t carry satisfaction so much as grim confirmation. “Don’t sign anything. Don’t argue. Don’t react. Observe.”
“Observe,” I repeated, like the word could become armor.
“It’s going to feel personal,” Simon warned. “But what you’re walking into is not a family conversation. It’s a transaction.”
I hung up and got dressed with mechanical calm, like someone moving through a fire drill. I chose jeans and a black sweater. Nothing expensive. Nothing soft. I pulled my hair into a tight knot that made my scalp ache because pain was easier than confusion.
On the drive to my parents’ house, my stomach knotted so tightly it felt like it might fold in on itself. Every red light made my hands sweat. Every mile brought up another memory I’d kept buried because it was easier to function when you pretended your childhood was “fine.”
My childhood home looked smaller than I remembered.
Maybe it hadn’t shrunk. Maybe I’d just outgrown the version of myself who used to stand on that porch with a report card in her hands and a hope in her chest, waiting to be told she was enough.
I parked at the curb and sat for a moment, watching the front window. The curtains twitched.
They were watching for me.
Of course they were.
When I stepped inside, the air felt stiff, like the house had been holding its breath. My mother didn’t hug me. She didn’t even touch my arm. She simply shut the door behind me and whispered, “We don’t have long. Your father is getting the documents.”
As if time itself was their enemy.
“My father” appeared from the hallway with a thick envelope, my name printed on the front in neat, official lettering.
He didn’t meet my eyes.
