I signed my name with hands that still smelled like hospital soap, the pen slipping against skin swollen from IV lines and labor. The bank’s fluorescent lights hummed over Hazel’s newborn cries in my memory, a soundtrack to the overdraft I’d been born into. My mother’s messages stacked like threats dressed as love, every “baby girl” followed by a due date, every “we’re family” stapled to a dollar sign. Hazel’s fingers curled around mine, impossibly small, while Penny’s voicemail played on loop, her voice cracking on cue about “the kids’ Christmas” and “how could you do this to us?” Each buzz of my phone dragged me back to a familiar altar where I was the offering—organs, hours, paychecks—bleeding out so they could play happy for an audience that never included me. I watched Hazel sleep and realized this was the inheritance I’d pass on if I didn’t leav… Continues…
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