My stepmother didn’t shout it; she laid it down like a verdict. “Get out of my house.” She was framed in the open garage, Florida rain hammering the driveway, the motion light buzzing overhead. My dad stood behind her in his oil-stained work shirt, hands buried in his pockets, staring at the concrete like it suddenly got interesting.
I had one duffel bag at my feet, a one‑way Greyhound ticket crinkled in my fist, and a tiny plastic fridge magnet shaped like the American flag I’d grabbed by accident when I yanked my hand off the kitchen door.
That was the last thing I took from that house. A fifty‑cent magnet and a bus ticket to nowhere.
Years later, that same bus ticket would sit under a sleeker metal flag magnet on my office mini‑fridge, right behind my desk on the twenty‑second floor. And the people who threw me out into the rain would walk through my glass doors asking for money like it was their birthright.
Back then, though, I was seventeen and still half‑convinced this was a bluff.
I searched my father’s face for something—regret, anger, anything—but his gaze stayed locked on the oil stains at his boots. “Wayne,” I said, because calling him Dad suddenly felt like a lie. “You’re really going to let her do this?”
His shoulders twitched.
Francis answered for him.
“One income. One child,” she said, the same line she’d tossed out weeks earlier over paint swatches and mortgage bills.
“We talked about this. Grown girls stand on their own two feet.”
“I’m still in high school,” I said.
My voice sounded small even to me.
Francis shoved the duffel closer with the toe of her sandal. “You’ll figure it out. Dana knows you’re coming.
You should be grateful we bought the ticket.”
My father cleared his throat.
“It’ll be good for you, Kayla,” he muttered. “You’re… you’re strong.”
He didn’t step forward.
He didn’t touch me. He didn’t even hold the umbrella.
That was the first sentence of the promise I made to myself that night: Remember this.
Remember exactly who opened the door and who shut it. I walked past them, out into the hot rain, duffel thudding against my hip, bus ticket damp in my palm. The garage door rumbled down behind me, sealing the house like a vault.
I didn’t look back.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
