Black trash bags. Dozens of them. Some split open, clothes spilling onto the concrete. My worn brown backpack I’d carried every day for four years. Stacks of textbooks with cracked spines. Notebooks filled with late-night equations and design sketches. My winter coat. A few dresses. My favorite mug. Even the small photo of me and my late grandmother that used to sit on my desk.
All of it… thrown out.
My father, Marcus Thompson, stood on the porch with his arms crossed, jaw tight, staring straight ahead like I was a stranger. My mother, Denise, stood beside him, eyes fixed on the ground, refusing to look at me. And my younger sister Samantha — twenty years old, full makeup, white sundress — was leaning against the gate, holding her phone up, livestreaming the entire thing.
She smirked when she saw me pull up.
“Oh look, the freeloader is finally home,” she said loudly enough for her followers to hear. “After four years of living off Mom and Dad, she thinks she can just come back like nothing happened.”
I stepped out of the car slowly, legs shaking.
“Daddy… Mom… what is this?”
My father’s voice was cold. “You’re twenty-two now, Aaliyah. Time to be an adult. We’re not supporting your dreams anymore while Samantha builds her future.”
Samantha laughed. “She got some little scholarship and thinks she’s better than us now. Meanwhile, I’m trying to grow my lash and skincare brand. You know how expensive marketing is?”
I looked at the pile again. My engineering scholarship letter was crumpled and half-stuffed into one of the bags.
**$250,000.**
I had worked harder than anyone in my family could possibly understand, and this was my reward.
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**Let me take you back.**
I wasn’t always the “difficult” daughter.
