I packed two suitcases in twenty-five minutes — clothes, laptop, my mother’s jewelry, a framed photo, and the little cedar box I’d hidden behind the winter blankets for years.
Chloe laughed when she saw my luggage. Neither of them believed I’d actually go.
On the porch, my father said my name. For one foolish second I hoped he’d finally speak up.
« Don’t make this dramatic, » he sighed.
« I’m not, » I said, and drove away.
Forty minutes later, a steel gate slid open onto a modern house built into the hillside. Glass walls. My house. Not Gwendolyn’s. Not my father’s. Mine.
Later that night, I placed the cedar box beneath the kitchen lights and lifted the lid.
Inside was the document I’d protected for years — the one my father should have remembered was there.
And that was when I realized Gwendolyn’s ultimatum hadn’t just forced me out of their house.
Because the house they’d thrown me out of was mine.
