Chapter 9: Exile or Escape?

My stepdad tried to wrangle Mason, who kicked and shouted, knocking over a lamp. Mom dialed 911 with shaking hands, voice breaking as she begged for help. In the background, our housekeeper quietly swept up the mess, her eyes fixed on the floor.

I didn’t move. I felt like someone had chalked a circle around my feet—one I wasn’t allowed to step outside. Helpless, numb, invisible.

The siren’s wail cut through the silence, then receded as Mason and my parents disappeared into the night. The living room was empty again—just me, the smell of disinfectant, and the creak of the settling house.

The weight of it all crashed down. I hated myself for staying, for fighting, for hurting and being hurt.

I stared at the family photos on the wall—perfect smiles, stiff arms—and wondered why I kept fighting for a place I’d never belong. Maybe some things just weren’t meant to fit.

I wondered: if I’d left after that first fork-throwing disaster, would I have found something better, or just more of the same?

I grabbed my keys, drove through empty streets, and parked in the office lot. I sat there until sunrise, watching headlights flicker past, replaying every wrong move.

Morning sunlight spilled over my dashboard as my phone buzzed. The work group chat lit up with a new announcement.

[The Cleveland branch is busy and urgently needs marketing specialists and excellent supervisors. Anyone willing to help, please sign up.] The message blinked at me, like an escape hatch I hadn’t noticed before.

My fingers moved before my brain could catch up. I filled out the application—name, experience, reasons for transfer—hardly daring to hope.

I checked my phone obsessively, jumping every time it vibrated. Two calls, both in the span of an hour.

The first was a scammer, but my heart still raced. I almost answered just to hear another human voice.

The second call was from my stepdad. My hands shook as I answered.

It’s always the thing you dread that arrives first. I braced myself, holding my breath.

He didn’t waste time. “So now you’re scared, huh? Funny how that works. I promoted you to this position for Mason’s sake, and this is how you repay me? First you upset Mason so much he had an episode, then use the chance to run off to Cleveland. Tess, Tess, what is going on in your head?”

I squeezed my phone so hard my knuckles ached. My mouth was dry, the words stuck somewhere behind my teeth.

I forced the words out, voice barely above a whisper: "Mason doesn’t want to see me. If I leave, it’s good for everyone."

There was a pause—a rustle, a chuckle, as if he’d already forgotten I was on the line. I could hear him talking to someone else in the background, his voice fading in and out.

"Fine, fine, I know, then Dr. Lewis will have to take care of Mason." He sounded almost relieved, or maybe just resigned.

I almost asked about Mason—about his episode, about whether he was okay—but the line went dead before I could speak.

A minute later, my phone buzzed once more. A notification flashed on the screen.

[Chairman John Carter has approved your application.] The words blinked back at me, official and cold. I stared at them, heart pounding, wondering if running away would finally set me free.