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When I closed the trunk, Samantha stepped closer, holding her phone nearer, her tone dripping with emphasis. Where are you going now, Isabelle? off to find someone else to freeload from. I lifted my head and looked straight at her, my gaze cold enough to make her step back half a pace. I spoke loud enough for her, my parents, and every neighbor to hear. You’ll be hearing from me soon.
No raised voice, no overt threat, but the words cut into the air like a thin blade, slipping between us and embedding themselves into the memory of everyone present. Samantha blinked, then gave a faint, dismissive smile as if it meant nothing, but I noticed her fingers tightened slightly around her phone. My father stood near the front door, saying nothing, just watching as I walked past the fence.
My mother had already turned away, stepping inside, her shoulders trembling slightly as though to avoid meeting any eyes. I opened my car door and slid into the driver’s seat. The faint scent of lavender from a torn bag drifted into the cabin, pulling me back to all those late nights studying alone in the dorm when a lavender oil diffuser had been the only thing that helped me sleep a few hours.
I started the car, the sound of the engine breaking the quiet of the beachside street. Through the windshield, I could still see a few neighbors lingering, some shaking their heads, others slipping silently back into their homes, all wearing the same expression. the look of people who had just witnessed a family drama but weren’t sure which side to believe.
My grip tightened on the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white, not from fear or shame, but from holding back the urge to turn around and spill the entire truth right then and there. But I knew this wasn’t the time. I eased the car forward, the tires humming softly over the asphalt.
In the rear view mirror, the house shrank with each passing second, finally disappearing behind the curve that led to the main road. I didn’t look back, not because I was afraid to see my parents and Samantha one more time, but because I had made a decision from the moment they piled my belongings at the gate, I would leave them exactly where they had chosen to stand behind me.
The road ahead was long, and I knew that when the right moment came, my promise. you’ll be hearing from me soon would become reality. Not in a burst of rage, but in a response strong enough that they would never forget it. I drove straight to Clare’s apartment, a narrow street just a few blocks from Crescent Bay’s shoreline, where a two-story red brick building stood shoulderto-shoulder beneath a row of old maples.
Clare had already heard what happened from a short message I sent when I left the house. And when I pulled up to the gate, she was already there waiting, wrapped in a gray hoodie, holding a cup of hot tea. “Oh my god, Isabelle, come in,” she said softly, her voice filled with concern, but without a single probing question.
I only nodded, holding back everything that had happened that afternoon. And together, we carried my bags up to her small second floor apartment. Clare’s apartment was warm and tidy. the smell of fresh baked waffles mingling with the scent of dried basil hanging in the kitchen corner. She cleared out her workroom for me, setting up a folding bed and stacking extra blankets and pillows nearby.
I didn’t say much, just thanked her, then began unpacking each bag, straightening my belongings so they wouldn’t wrinkle. Notebooks stacked neatly on the desk, clothes hung in the closet, documents, and keepsakes tucked into the drawers. When I unzipped an old suitcase, I found beneath a layer of thick winter coats a pale yellow envelope, its edges slightly worn, the handwriting unmistakably familiar.
Open only when you truly have no one left to lean on. My heart stopped for a beat. I recognized my grandmother Margaret’s handwriting immediately. She had passed away when I was 18. Back then, I still lived with my parents, but she had always been my greatest source of strength. She often told me, “Isabelle, you must hold on to your worth.