Caitlyn sighed. “But they’re your family.”
I stared at the ceiling, feeling the old tug of guilt, the old conditioning, like a hook in my ribs.
“No,” I said firmly. “They’re related to me. Family doesn’t abandon you and then show up demanding money. Family doesn’t hire private investigators to stalk you. Family doesn’t break into houses with baseball bats because they don’t get their way.”
Julian was sitting across from me, listening. When I hung up, he reached for my hand.
“I’m proud of you,” he said.
The words made my eyes sting. Proud was not something my parents said to me unless it served a narrative.
In the months that followed, my life kept moving forward in a way that almost felt rude, like the universe hadn’t gotten the memo that my family was imploding.
Work was going well. I got a big promotion—one of those moments I would’ve once driven to my parents’ house to celebrate, craving their approval like oxygen. Instead, Julian took me out for dinner, toasted me with a cheap but bubbly bottle of champagne, and told me I’d earned it.
We started seriously house hunting in his area. Not because I needed a place to prove myself anymore, but because we wanted a shared future. A home that belonged to us, not to my family’s leverage.
One evening, after a long day of touring houses, we sat on Julian’s couch scrolling through listings. We were both tired and a little punchy, arguing playfully about whether a breakfast nook was necessary.
Julian nudged me with his shoulder. “This one has a backyard big enough for a garden,” he said, eyes bright. “You’d like that.”
I snorted. “Half my herbs died last time.”
“That’s because you loved them too aggressively,” he said, and I laughed—an easy laugh, unguarded.
Then his expression shifted slightly, thoughtful.
“You know,” he said, “when you moved in, you kept apologizing. For your family. For the drama. Like you were responsible.”
I looked down at my hands. “I felt responsible,” I admitted.
“And now?” he asked.
I thought about my parents selling their house. About Clara’s lies. About the body-cam footage frozen on my mother’s furious face.
“I still feel sad,” I said. “But I don’t feel responsible anymore.”
Julian’s smile was soft. “Good,” he said.
A week later, we found a house that felt right.