Chapter 6: Freedom, Fallout, and a Reckoning

At work, I signed the company transfer paperwork.

I’d been putting it off for months, but now it felt right. The future was waiting, and for once, I was choosing myself.

After years of hard work, I could’ve transferred to headquarters long ago.

My boss had offered, twice. “Nick, you’re wasted here. The big leagues need guys like you.” I’d always said no, afraid to leave Autumn behind.

But I kept putting it off because I couldn’t leave Autumn’s family.

Every time I packed a box, Carol would guilt-trip me, Autumn would beg me to stay. So I stayed, year after year.

Now, though, things had changed. She had a new boyfriend, and I didn’t like her anymore.

The spell was broken. I was free, in every sense of the word.

We could each pursue our own paths—she could chase her love, I could focus on my career.

I smiled at the thought. For the first time in years, the future looked wide open. Finally.

Just then, a comment caught my eye.

[Mom just realized the debit card’s gone. She’s about to lose it. Villain’s fault for not showing up. Absolute clown 🤡.]

I rolled my eyes, almost amused. If I was the villain, at least I was finally doing something for myself. About time.

Just noticing now?

I pictured Carol’s face, the dawning horror, the frantic search through every drawer and coat pocket.

I paused, then relaxed.

It’s not even my money, and I didn’t steal it. What does this have to do with me?

Wait, no—that card had my money in it, too.

Suddenly, my stomach dropped. That was my nest egg, my future. Panic clawed at my chest.

I shot up from my seat and frantically searched my desk drawers.

Papers flew, pens clattered to the floor. I tore through every folder, every notebook, desperate for something—anything—that could help.

Finally, tucked inside a notebook, I found the IOU Autumn wrote me.

The sight of her handwriting—curvy, neat—made my throat tighten. She’d written it on a whim, never thinking she’d have to pay me back. Figures.

She’d only written it because I sold my house for her. She thought I was so in love I’d never use it.

I could almost hear her laugh—“It’s just a formality, Nick. You know I’ll pay you back someday.” I’d believed her. Fool that I was.

But now, it was the perfect leverage for getting my money back.

I tucked the IOU into my wallet, a small sense of satisfaction blooming in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, I’d get some justice after all.

After work, another comment flashed before my eyes.

[Villain fumbled the bag again. Now Mom’s gotta call the cops herself. Oof.]

The blame never ended. But this time, I didn’t care. Let them handle their own mess for once. Not my circus, not my monkeys.

So, if I don’t bend over backwards for Autumn’s family, I’m a jerk?

I chuckled, shaking my head. Maybe being a jerk wasn’t so bad after all. Kinda liberating, honestly.

Honestly, I’m more curious now—will Autumn really make it to her love story’s promised land in Canada?

I pictured her, suitcase in hand, running through the airport with her new boyfriend. Would she find happiness? Did she even know what that looked like?

And if Carol finds out the one who stole her husband’s treatment fund was her own daughter, how will she react?

That thought made me pause. Would she finally see the truth, or would she find a way to blame me anyway?

In less than twenty minutes, I found Carol’s livestream.

Her face filled the screen, red-eyed and trembling. The chat scrolled by in a blur—hearts, angry faces, donations piling up. I watched, feeling weirdly detached, like I was tuning in to someone else’s soap opera.

She was sobbing on camera, denouncing the thief’s evil deeds.

Her voice cracked as she begged for justice, holding up family photos, pointing to the empty pill bottles on the table. The viewers ate it up, sending prayers and cash in equal measure.

According to her, not only was the hundred thousand dollars for medical expenses gone, but everything valuable in the house had been cleaned out, too.

She listed every loss, from Gary’s wedding ring to the antique clock in the hallway. The outrage in the comments was palpable—calls for the thief to be punished, for justice to be served.

Soon, a post titled “Elderly Man’s Treatment Fund Stolen” appeared on all the major platforms, complete with a video of Carol filing the police report.

The story spread like wildfire—local news, Facebook groups, even the neighborhood email chain. My phone buzzed nonstop with notifications. I sat back, watching the drama unfold, strangely at peace for the first time in ages. Not my problem anymore.