It took my parents exactly three minutes on speakerphone to erase six years of my life. They forgot one detail: I know how to read contracts, screenshot bank apps, and pull county records at 2:00 a.m. By the time my sister’s Uber rolled up to her “new” house, the locks were changed, and the cops were waiting. They thought I was still the daughter who just said “okay.” They didn’t know I’d brought a lawyer and receipts.
My name is Vivian Harper. It is late on a Tuesday night in Spokane, Washington, and the city is washed in the cold, wet glow of November. My key finally finds the lock to my apartment, a small one-bedroom rental that always smells faintly of my downstairs neighbor’s cooking. Tonight, it’s garlic and something burnt. I drag myself inside, my body aching with the specific dull throb that comes from eleven straight hours of Zoom meetings. I’m a remote UX lead for a wellness app called Aurora Well. I spend my days designing interfaces meant to help people find calm, balance, and mindfulness. Most days, I feel like a fraud. My shoulders are concrete knots, my eyes burn from staring at code and client feedback, and my brain is just static.
I drop my keys on the cheap particle-board console table. They land with a clatter that sounds too loud in the silence. All I want is the half-eaten container of leftover pizza in my fridge and a full eight hours of unconsciousness. I’m thirty-two years old, and my biggest fantasy is a silent night. But my phone, sitting on the table, lights up before I can even take off my coat. The screen flashes: Mom.
A little spike of automatic guilt hits me. I should have called her Sunday. I swipe to answer, pressing the phone between my ear and shoulder as I bend to unlace my boots. “Hey, Mom. Sorry, I—
“Vivian.”
My hands freeze on the laces. Her tone stops me cold. It’s not her warm, “Hi, honey” voice. It’s not her passive-aggressive, “I guess you’re too busy” voice. This is her public voice. This is Diane Harper, former PTA president, addressing the school board. It’s formal, practiced, and utterly devoid of warmth.
“Mom, is everything okay? Is Dad all right?”
“Your father and I are fine,” she says, the words clipped. “We’re on speaker. Russell, say hello to your daughter.”
The story doesn’t end here –
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