My parents kicked me out on Christmas Eve, then expected me to keep funding the house I was no longer allowed to live in. That was when I finally understood they had never really viewed me as their daughter—they saw a bank account that happened to occupy a bedroom.
The dining room looked flawless that night. White candles flickered beside Mom’s expensive crystal glasses. Snow pressed against the windows while my father carved the roast and my older brother, Mason, scrolled through his phone.
Then Dad cleared his throat.
“Briar, your mother and I have been discussing something.”
Mom wore an overly bright smile.
“You’re twenty-five now. It’s time you learned independence.”
I set down my fork. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Dad said, “you need to move out.”
