walked through a house I’d cleaned, a life I’d funded, a family that never saw me—and packed. No theatrics. Phone charger, journal, old metro card. Midnight Greyhound. One seat left.
At the station, the air smelled like bleach and bad timing. An older woman hummed off-key. A toddler cried. All of it felt softer than that one sentence. I stared at the continue reading …
