She folded her hands calmly. “Then this is your choice. If you stay with him, you do it without our support. Financial or otherwise.”
I stared at her. “You’d really cut off your only child for not dumping her injured boyfriend?”
My father’s jaw tightened.
The argument went in circles. I cried. I yelled. They remained composed and cold.
Finally, my mother said, “Him or us.”
My voice trembled, but I answered, “Him.”
The next day, my college fund was gone.
“We are not going to fund you throwing your life away,” my father said, handing me my documents. “If you’re an adult, be one.”
I lasted two more days in that house. The silence hurt more than the words.
So I packed a duffel bag—clothes, a few books, my toothbrush—and stood in my childhood bedroom for a long moment, staring at the life I was leaving behind.
Then I walked out.
His parents lived in a small house that smelled like onions and laundry detergent. His mom opened the door, saw the bag, and didn’t ask questions.
“Come in, baby,” she said. “You’re family.”
I broke down right there on the threshold.
