The worst part of losing my job at a Denver software company wasn’t the HR email or the cardboard box on my desk. It was what my sister did three days later with a single thousand-dollar payment. When my manager pulled me into the glass conference room and said, “It’s restructuring, not performance,” I forced a smile, packed my headset and sad little desk plant, and told myself it was just a bump in the road.
That night, I called my parents hoping for comfort, maybe an offer to come home for a bit—something that sounded like love.
Instead, my mother’s voice came through ice-cold: “Maybe this is the push you need to finally grow up. You’ve coasted long enough, Riley.”
I told myself they didn’t mean it.
Two days later, my landlord knocked on my door and asked if we could talk. He wouldn’t look me in the eye when he said, “Your sister paid me a thousand dollars to end your lease early.”
I actually laughed, waiting for the punchline.
It never came.
“She said it would help you grow up,” he added, like saying it softer would make it less cruel. My hands were shaking when I called Jordan. She answered already laughing.
“Mom and Dad are tired of dealing with a failure like you.”
When I called home, my mother’s voice didn’t waver.
“Let the street teach you a lesson.”
My father added, “We’re not bailing you out anymore. This family doesn’t accept losers.”
I didn’t argue.
I didn’t cry. I stuffed my life into trash bags, loaded my beat-up Honda, and drove to a Walmart parking lot to sleep.
That first night in the parking lot, I barely slept.
Every rattling shopping cart or passing truck jerked me awake, clutching my phone like a safety blanket. By sunrise, my neck was stiff, my back screaming, and my breath fogged the windshield. I’d gone from remote tech job with benefits to hoping security wouldn’t bang on my window in less than a week.
When I finally forced myself to move, I realized I couldn’t just sit there burning gas and pretending this was temporary.
I found a tiny coffee shop a few blocks away—the kind with chipped tables and a handwritten sign reading “WiFi with purchase.” I bought the cheapest latte and camped in a corner, hugging the cup like it might hold my future. My savings weren’t impressive to begin with, and what little I had was bleeding out fast.
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