My coworker, Mia, said my name softly from the pastry case. “Claire?”
I flipped the phone face-down, finished the order, smiled at the customer, and moved through the next few drinks like my body had stayed at work while the rest of me had fallen through the floor.
When I finally stepped into the narrow hallway by the storage closet, I typed one word.
No.
My father called immediately.
I answered because some small, stupid part of me still hoped there had been a misunderstanding.
Instead, he shouted, “Pack your things. You’re dead to us. After everything we’ve done for you, you don’t get to say no.”
Then he hung up.
I stood there under the buzzing fluorescent light with my phone in my hand, twenty-two years old, suddenly homeless on my birthday.
I didn’t cry. Something colder happened. Something inside me went still.
I finished my shift.
By the time I walked outside, the Florida evening was heavy and wet, the parking lot glowing under weak yellow lights. The corner where my Toyota should have been was empty.
They had actually done it.
I laughed once, a broken sound with no humor in it, then started walking the three miles home.