I waited for my father to tell her to stop.
Instead, he pressed his fingers to his forehead and said, “Mara, you’re eighteen now. You should understand.”
My mother refused to meet my eyes as she removed the candles from the cake. “We’ll do something for you another weekend. Your sister is in a very fragile place.”
Something inside me turned numb and cold.
My friends had already said they were coming. My boss had given me the evening off. My grandmother had sent me a card with fifty dollars tucked inside and the words, Finally, your life begins. But my parents treated my birthday like a disposable plate, something they could crush and throw away if it kept Brielle calm.
Brielle stopped crying the moment my father promised to take her to the mall. She glanced up at me through damp eyelashes, and I caught the tiny smile she was trying to hide.
That smile made the decision for me.
I did not scream. I did not plead. I simply went upstairs, pulled out the emergency backpack I had packed months before, and added my birth certificate, Social Security card, laptop, two uniforms, and the envelope of savings I had taped beneath my dresser drawer.
By the time my parents returned from “comforting” Brielle with new sneakers and dinner at her favorite restaurant, my bedroom was empty.
On my pillow, I left one note.
