By the time Dad turned into the cracked parking lot of Derek’s parents’ apartment complex, my mouth had gone dry.

The place looked exactly the way it always did in the late afternoon—sun-faded stucco, uneven railings, a few dead plants in pots nobody remembered to water, and a row of cars lined up under crooked metal shade covers.

Patricia’s white SUV sat in its usual spot.

Derek’s truck was parked two spaces over.

My car was there too.

Mine, even if the title said otherwise.

I knew that blue sedan from every angle.

I had spent two years making the payments out of my paycheck while Derek bounced from one plan to the next and Patricia kept reminding everyone how generous she was for letting us stay.
The car was parked close to the building, tucked in a space that should have been mine to use.

Seeing it there made something twist low in my stomach.

Dad turned off the engine and looked at me.

“Can you walk?”

I nodded automatically.

He glanced at my ankle and raised an eyebrow.

“Can you walk enough to get inside and get your things?” he asked.

That question stopped me.

Get my things.

Not ask for the keys.

Not smooth things over.

Not sit down and discuss feelings around Patricia’s table while she played victim and Derek stared at the floor.

Get my things.

I looked at him.

“My things?”

Dad held my gaze.

You and Evan are not staying here tonight.”

The words landed with so much force that for a second I couldn’t think around them.

I had imagined leaving before, usually in quiet, guilty flashes while I rocked Evan to sleep on the mattress on the floor of Derek’s old bedroom.

But imagination was easy when it stayed vague.
The moment anybody spoke it out loud, leaving became real.

Real meant scary.

Real meant money.

Real meant admitting how bad things had gotten.

Dad must have seen the panic cross my face because his voice lowered.

“You don’t have to decide the next five years right now,” he said.

“You only have to decide tonight.”

My throat tightened.

In the back seat, Evan let out a soft complaint, and that small sound made the choice clearer than anything else.

I opened the door carefully and stepped down.

The pain in my ankle was immediate and sharp, but I wasn’t carrying groceries and a baby this time.

Dad came around, lifted Evan out of his seat, and settled him against his shoulder like he’d done it every day of his life.

Then he nodded toward the stairs.

We climbed.

The apartment door was unlocked.

That told me Patricia was home, and it also told me she felt safe.

People only leave doors unlocked when they think nobody is coming to challenge them.

Dad knocked once anyway, firm enough to announce himself.

Patricia opened the door with a kitchen towel in her hand and irritation already forming on her face.

She was one of those women who could look perfectly put together while making you feel sloppy just for standing near her.

Her blond hair was sprayed into place, her lipstick immaculate, her expression sharpened by habit.

The irritation vanished when she saw my father, and something colder took its place.

“Can