The next morning, I confronted them at breakfast.
My hands were shaking, but I still believed there would be denial. Maybe an apology. Maybe my father would say he had spoken carelessly.
Instead, he lowered his newspaper and looked annoyed.
“You shouldn’t listen at doors.”
That was all.
My mother stared into her tea as if silence could make her innocent. Sarah sat beside her, perfect and quiet, refusing to meet my eyes.
I asked one question.
“Is that really what you think of me?”
My father sighed like I was embarrassing him.
“You are too sensitive. That is your problem.”
That night, I packed one suitcase. I waited by the door for someone to stop me.
No one came.
So I left with swollen eyes and a heart that finally understood its place.