The same name that had once been spoken in the small kitchen of a cramped suburban house where, on the night I turned eighteen, my mother had handed me two black trash bags filled with clothes and told me they could not afford to keep feeding me.
“You’re an adult now,” she had said with a firmness that left no room for discussion. “You’ll figure things out.”
My father had stood behind her silently, arms crossed, as though the conversation had already been settled long before I walked into the room.
I left that night with sixty dollars, a backpack, and a promise to myself that if I survived the next decade, I would never ask them for anything again.
And for ten years, they never called.
Not once.
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