Page 63 of Letting Go

“It’s exactly the same,” I say, grinning like I’ve won a courtroom argument and a reality show in one swoop. “Love knows no physics. Or anatomy. Or self-preservation, apparently.”

“I hate you,” Hannah says, hiding her face behind a throw pillow, but she’s laughing too hard for it to stick.

“You love me,” I say sweetly, topping off my drink. “And now you understand how a Pomeranian gets knocked up by a German Shepherd.”

Chapter 23

The next morning, I wake up at 7:04 a.m., bright eyed and suspiciously headache free. Either my body’s developing a tolerance to wine, or the gallon of water I chugged before bed finally did something useful. I lie there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, letting the morning stillness wrap around me like a shield. Today’s the day.

No more waiting. No more tiptoeing.

I’m going to confront my parents.

Finally.

Not out of anger, though God knows, that’s still simmering under the surface, but because Caden, with all his irritating calm and rational insight, is right. I start my new job soon. A clean slate, finally. I don’t need the ghosts of their judgment or their unexpected, smug appearances showing up like badly timed jump scares in the middle of my fresh start.

I head to my bathroom and flick on the light, squinting at my reflection in the mirror like it might fight me. I look… fine. Sleep creased, slightly puffy, emotionally hungover maybe, but alive. Present. Barely.

I use the restroom, shower and pull my hair into something that passes for intentional, low bun, lots of bobby pins, total damage control chic. Brush, wash my face and swipe some concealer under my eyesbecause no one told me, dogs sometimes need to pee in the middle of the night.

I throw on jeans and a black sweater, the pencil skirts and slacks are for later. Something about dressing like a woman who has her shit together helps me pretend I actually do. Then I spritz on perfume because I’m a masochist and apparently want to smell like confidence while walking into emotional landmines.

Keys, phone, charger, emotional damage. Check, check, check.

As I grab my bag, Roxy lifts her head from the couch and watches me, calm and steady, like she’s sizing me up. I give her a small smile.

“Hold the fort.”

She blinks slowly, unimpressed, and lays her head back down like she’s already written me off for the day.

And honestly, fair.

I slip out the door, lock it behind me, and take a deep breath.

The drive to my parents’ house is somehow both long and not long enough. My nerves buzz beneath my skin like static. I keep imagining worst case scenarios, yelling, guilt trips, passive aggressive Bible verses about forgiveness, even though they stopped going to church years ago.

It’s exhausting, mentally rehearsing comebacks to lines they haven’t said yet. But I have to do this. I have to look them in the eye and force them to say what they’ve only ever hinted at behind polite smiles and icy phone calls.

Their house is the same as always, perfectly white, not a flower out of place, like it’s trying to win an award for Most Emotionally Repressed Suburban Architecture. I knock, even though I could technically walk in. I’m not giving them that power today.

The door swings open almost too quickly, like she’s been waiting. My mom, in full battle mode: red lipstick, flawless chignon, and pearls that match the cold gleam in her eyes.

“Oh,” she says, eyebrows arched. “You’re up early. How are you, sweetheart?” Sweetheart. A word so brittle it might snap in her throat.

“I’m fine,” I say, already feeling the mask slide onto my face. “Can I come in?”

She steps aside, and I cross the threshold into the museum of my childhood, pristine, cold, unchanging.

I follow the noise to where my dad is on the phone in the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. He doesn’t say hello. Just, hangs up and “We’ve been calling. You haven’t answered.”

My father doesn’t look me in the eye as delivers this dig. A mark against me before I even crossed the threshold.

“I know,” I say, stepping farther inside, heart pounding. “I’ve been busy.”

My mother closes the kitchen door behind me with a soft click, and just like that, the imposition starts.

“About your job,” my mom says. No inflection, just that slight lift at the end like a question and accusation dressed up as concern. “Are you… looking?”

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