I walked up to the pile and picked up the crumpled Vanguard Award letter. I held it up so Samantha’s livestream could see it clearly.
“This ‘little scholarship’ is $250,000,” I said, my voice shaking but loud. “I earned this. I didn’t ask you for a dime after my sophomore year. I paid my own rent. I paid for my books. I worked forty hours a week while taking eighteen credit hours. And this is how you treat me?”
My mother finally looked up. Her eyes were glassy, but she said nothing.
My father stepped forward. “We gave you a roof over your head for twenty-two years, Aaliyah. You should be grateful. Samantha needs the room now for her content studio.”
I laughed bitterly, tears streaming down my face.
“Grateful? I have been grateful every single day. I thanked you for every scrap of support. But I never asked you to choose between us. I never asked you to love me more. I just wanted you to love me too.”
Samantha rolled her eyes. “Here we go with the victim act again.”
I looked at my father — the man who used to carry me on his shoulders when I was little. The man who once told me I could be anything.
“I graduated with honors, Dad. Honors. I have job offers waiting. I’m going to be okay. But one day, when Samantha’s latest idea crashes and burns, and you need someone to actually be there for you… don’t call me.”
I started gathering my bags. One by one. The neighbors eventually came over to help. Mrs. Rodriguez brought boxes from her garage. Mr. Jenkins helped me load everything into my car. No one said much, but their silent support meant more than my own parents’ words ever had.
As I closed the trunk, my mother finally spoke.
“Aaliyah… wait.”
