I could still hear my father’s voice from that kitchen—cold, rehearsed, listing my “failures” like unpaid bills.
“You’re a problem, Lena,” he’d said. “Your grades. Your attitude. Your moods. You’re always ‘anxious’ or ‘sad’ or ‘struggling.’”
He said it like my pain was a personal insult.
My mother didn’t defend me. She stood at the sink, hands in soapy water, staring at a spotless plate like it needed scrubbing more than I needed saving.
Two hours later, the suitcase appeared. Half-filled with clothes I didn’t pick, none of my books, none of the things I loved—just enough to pretend they’d done their part.
“You’re thirteen,” my father told me as he set it outside. “Old enough to figure it out. Go find your aunt if you’re so obsessed with her. She likes projects.”
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