The first boom shook the door, but it was the second that rattled something older loose in me. A year of lawyers and signatures and measured, adult words had not done it; the Hawthornes were still operating from the same script in which I existed to absorb their consequences. As Margaret screamed about “gold-diggers” in my hallway and Brandon lied to a locksmith about my mental health, I watched my own face in the black reflection of the microwave and realized, with a clarity as sharp as the October light on the skyline, that I was done being the soft surface they landed on when their schemes ran out of road. The espresso on my counter was still warm when I opened my laptop and walked toward the oncoming colli… Continues…
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