My phone buzzed halfway through a long shift, and for a brief, foolish second, I almost smiled before I even looked.
It was my birthday.
Not that anyone in my family had remembered things like that for a while—but still, a small part of me had been waiting. Hoping for something simple. A message. A “happy birthday.” Something ordinary and warm that proved I mattered.
Instead, I was standing behind the café counter, hands sticky from caramel syrup, when my screen lit up with my mother’s name—and the message that followed made everything inside me stop.
We sold your car. Family comes first. Be grateful we let you live here.
I blinked, once, twice, trying to make sense of it. My mouth kept moving on autopilot, answering a customer’s question like nothing had changed.
Then another message came through.
Your brother’s starting college. You’ll pay his first semester. Six thousand. It’s due this week.
No request. No conversation.
Just an order.
Something inside me shifted—quietly, but completely.
I finished my shift like a machine. Smiling, pouring coffee, making small talk like my world hadn’t just tilted sideways. But when I stepped outside into the warm evening air, the place where I always parked was empty.
