Dad forgot to hang up the call. «She’s nothing! A failure, should’ve never been born…

I was carefully replacing these boxes when my phone rang. It was Heather. Hey sis, are you okay? Mom said you didn’t come home last night.

I hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. Heather and I had never been close, the age gap and our parents’ obvious favoritism creating a chasm between us. But she wasn’t cruel, just self-absorbed in the way people can be when they’ve always been the center of attention.

I’m staying with Zoe for a few days, I said finally. I need some space. Space from what? Did something happen? We arranged to meet at a coffee shop halfway between our homes.

I wasn’t ready to tell her everything, but I needed to gauge her reaction to see if she’d been part of their conversations about me. The cafe was busy, providing both ambient noise for privacy and enough witnesses to prevent a scene. Heather arrived looking harried, her blonde hair, so like our mothers, pulled back in a messy ponytail.

She’d always been the pretty one, the charming one, while I was the smart one, a distinction that felt more like a consolation prize than a compliment. What’s going on? She asked as soon as she sat down. Mom’s freaking out.

She thinks you’re having some kind of breakdown. I’m selling the house, I said bluntly, watching her face carefully. Her eyes widened.

What? Why? You love that house. I’m moving to Denver. I’ve already started the process.

Denver? But what about mom and dad? Where will they go? There it was, her first thought was for our parents, not for me. But there was genuine confusion in her expression, not calculation. They’ll figure it out, I said, my voice study.

They’re adults, but they can’t afford their own place right now. Dad’s still looking for work and mom’s never had a real job. I’m aware, I replied, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

I’ve been supporting them completely for three years, paying the mortgage, utilities, groceries, everything. Did you know that? She had the grace to look uncomfortable. I knew you were helping them out.

Helping implies they contribute something. They don’t. Heather fidgeted with her coffee cup.

Look, I would help if I could, but with three kids and Keith’s business just getting established. I’m not asking you to help, I interrupted. I’m telling you what’s happening.

I’m selling my house and moving away. Because of mom and dad? Did they do something? For a moment, I considered telling her everything. The overheard conversation, the years of dismissal and disrespect.

But looking at her worried face, I realized she truly didn’t know. She’d been shielded from the darker side of our parents, cushioned by their unconditional love and approval. I need a change, I said instead.

The house will sell quickly. They’ll need to find their own place. They could stay with us temporarily, she offered, though without enthusiasm.

The guest room is small, but that’s between you and them. I stood up, signaling the end of our conversation. I just wanted you to know directly from me.

As I walked away, she called after me. Audrey, wait. Are you okay? Really? I turned back, surprised by the genuine concern in her voice.

For a brief moment, I saw past the golden child persona to the sister who had once, long ago, defended me against our father’s criticism when I’d broken his favorite coffee mug. I will be, I answered honestly. That afternoon, I had a video interview with Westbrook Financial in Denver, leveraging connections from a conference I’d attended last year.

The hiring manager, Benjamin Clark, remembered me well. We’d be lucky to have someone with your expertise, Audrey. The team lead position just opened up last month.

Perfect timing. Perfect timing indeed. As if the universe was finally aligning to help me break free.

My final call of the day was to Victoria. I owed her the courtesy of transparency, at least professionally. Denver, she repeated after I’d explained my situation.

That’s unexpected. We have a satellite office there, you know. Not as prestigious as Chicago, but growing.

Would you consider a transfer instead of resignation? The offer took me by surprise. You’d help me transfer? Audrey, you’re one of our top performers. I’d rather keep you in the Hartman family, even if it’s from a distance.

Think about it. Let me know by Monday. As I ended the call, I realized I’d accomplished more in one day toward my own happiness than I had in years of striving to please my parents.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. It took discovering their true feelings to finally prioritize my own. That evening, I returned home for dinner, watching my parents through new eyes as they discussed their day, complained about neighbors, asked perfunctory questions about my illness.

I answered pleasantly, passed the potatoes, and excused myself early, claiming fatigue. In my room, I continued preparations, transferring documents to a secure cloud storage, researching moving companies, creating new bank accounts my parents couldn’t access. With each step, the fog of obligation and guilt that had clouded my judgment for so long began to lift.

In its place was something unfamiliar but welcome, determination uncomplicated by the need for approval. One week later, my house was officially on the market. Natalie had worked miracles, arranging for professional staging and photography while my parents were out.

The listing went live on Thursday evening, described as a luxury family home in prestigious neighborhood, priced to sell quickly. We’ll hold an open house this Sunday, Natalie informed me. Based on comparable properties and current market conditions, I expect multiple offers by Monday morning.

I nodded, scrolling through the listing photos on my laptop. The house looked beautiful, spacious, and bright, devoid of the tension that had filled it in recent months. I’ll make sure my parents are out during the open house.

About that, Natalie hesitated. Have you told them yet? They’ll find out soon enough. The soon enough came that very evening.

I arrived home from work to find my father standing in the driveway, arms crossed, face thunderous. Beside him, my mother wrung her hands, her expression oscillating between hurt and anger. What the hell is this? Dad demanded, pointing to the for sale sign Natalie had installed that afternoon.

I walked past him, unlocking the front door with steady hands. It’s exactly what it looks like. I’m selling the house.

They followed me inside, my mother’s voice rising to a pitch I recognized from childhood tantrum management. You can’t just sell our home without discussing it with us first. I set my briefcase down carefully on the entryway table.

It’s not our home. It’s my home. My name is on the deed, the mortgage, and every utility bill.

I’ve made every payment for three years. So that gives you the right to throw your own parents out on the street? My father’s face was turning the dangerous shade of red that had intimidated me since childhood. But I wasn’t a child anymore…