The hiss of the bus’s air brakes was a sound of arrival, a sigh of relief after a four-hour journey. Anna, all of twenty, stepped down onto the cracked pavement of her hometown, a suburb outside Cleveland that smelled perpetually of cut grass and impending rain. She pulled the handle of her rolling suitcase, a wide, genuine smile stretching across her face.
One year of college, done. Dean’s list, secured. She was coming home a quiet success.
She had pictured this moment for weeks. Her mom, feigning indifference but unable to hide a proud smile. Her dad, clapping her on the shoulder, his voice booming as he asked about her classes.
The familiar comfort of the two-story house on Maple Avenue, the one with the slightly crooked porch swing and the overgrown rose bushes her mother always promised to trim. As she rounded the final corner, the smile on her face began to falter. Something was wrong.
In front of the house—her house—was a stark, wooden sign with bold red letters that felt like a slap: SOLD. It was hammered into the lawn she’d helped her dad fertilize just last spring. Her heart began to pound a frantic, sickening rhythm against her ribs.
Then she saw them. On the curb, next to the overflowing trash cans, were cardboard boxes. Her boxes.
The ones from her childhood bedroom, hastily taped and labeled in her mother’s cursive: “Anna’s Books,” “Anna’s Awards,” “Anna’s Things.” They were discarded like trash, left to the mercy of the humid Ohio air. A childhood, boxed up and abandoned. Panic clawed at her throat.
She fumbled for her phone, her fingers trembling as she dialed her mother. It rang once, twice, a third time before the click of an answer. “Hello?” Her mother’s voice was distant, clipped, not the warm tone she had been dreaming of.
“Mom? What’s going on? I’m here… at the house.
There’s a ‘SOLD’ sign. And my things… they’re on the street.”
There was a pause, filled with a cold static that seemed to stretch for an eternity. “Oh.
Anna. You’re back early.”
“Early? My semester ended.
I told you last week. Mom, what is happening?” Anna’s voice cracked, the first fissure in the dam of her composure. “Listen,” her mother began, the word sharp and devoid of sympathy.
“Your father and I had a business opportunity. A big one. We had to move fast.”
“Move?
Move where? Without telling me? What about me?”
“We’re in Austin now.
Look, you’re an adult. You’re on a full scholarship, you’ve always been the responsible one.” The words were meant to sound like a compliment, but they were wielded like a weapon, a justification. “It’s time you learned to fend for yourself.”
The line went dead.
Anna stared at her phone, the silence screaming in her ear. A moment later, a notification lit up the screen. A new text message.
From her mother. It contained just three words. Fend for yourself.
Sitting on the curb amidst the ruins of her past, the humid air pressed down on Anna, thick and suffocating. The cheerful chirping of birds in the maple tree above felt like a mockery. She stared at the three words on her phone screen, the pixels glowing with a terrifying finality.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
