They tried to laugh it off at first, like I’d sent a dramatic teenage manifesto instead of a case file. I let them. I waited, then spread my evidence across the dining table, turning the wood into a witness stand. Bank statements showing my babysitting money siphoned into “family emergencies” that always meant Amber. Housing forms for dorms three states away, completed in ink months before anyone asked my plans. Bus schedules highlighted in yellow, routes from our street to the community college, then to the library, then to the post office. Twenty months of Saturdays circled in red on a calendar—days I’d worked, studied, or sat alone while they attended Amber’s crises and milestones. My father’s face shifted when he saw the notarized scholarship forms I’d never mentioned. When he accused me of acting like they had abused me, I didn’t flinch. I simply turned the final page, slid the stamped receipt for certified mail across the table, and pointed to the door I’d already built in si… Continues…