Just:
Come back.
Because even now, she still thought I was something that belonged to that house.
I laughed once under my breath, though there was no humor in it.
“You threw me away long before I left.”
“No—”
“You did.”
Her breath hitched sharply.
In the silence, I could picture her standing in that marble kitchen, perfectly dressed, gripping her phone with trembling fingers while guests whispered in the next room about the son she had never really seen.
“Your father is in the hospital,” she said quietly.
“The doctors think it was stress.”
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
Malcolm Kane.
The man who spent his entire life worshipping power.
The man who had taught everyone around him that love was transactional.
The man who looked at his youngest son and saw only humiliation.
And somehow, even after everything, hearing he had collapsed still made
I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.
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