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.
“Sit down, Nathan,” my dad said.
I recognized that voice immediately. It was the one he used when he wanted authority without explanation — when the decision had already been made.
“You’re eighteen now,” he continued. “You’re an adult. And that means we’re done taking care of you. You need to move out.”
That was it.No buildup. No warning. No conversation about options.
I actually laughed, because it sounded ridiculous.
“I’ve got three months left of high school,” I said. “Where exactly am I supposed to go?”
He shrugged like I’d asked about the weather.“You’ll figure something
