The words hit harder than I expected. I felt my face burn, my throat tighten. For a second, I considered arguing. I could have reminded them who drove me to school every morning, who taught me how to balance a checkbook, who stayed up all night when I had the flu. But I didn’t.
I nodded once, turned around, and walked away.
On the bus ride back to my apartment, I stared out the window and counted the stops so I wouldn’t cry in front of strangers. My chest ached with more than grief—it hurt with dismissal, with being erased. By the time I reached my place, I collapsed onto the couch and let the tears come quietly, the way I’d learned to do growing up.
Three days later, my phone rang.
