August 10, 2026.
The weeks after telling my parents were a slow frost.
They didn’t cut me off.
But everything changed.
Texts from Mom were shorter.
“How’s work?”
“Fine.”
Calls from Dad stopped.
When I visited—once a week, to keep some thread connected—the conversations were careful.
Weather.
My new apartment (they knew I was moving, not with whom).
The garden.
Never Damien.
Never us.
Mom hugged me at the door.
But her eyes were sad.
Dad nodded hello.
Asked about the job.
Nothing else.
I told them I was moving into the loft September 1.
Alone.
The lie sat heavy.
They didn’t ask questions.
Just “Be safe” and “Call when you’re settled.”
Damien felt it too.
He came with me once.
They were polite.
Offered coffee.
Talked about the stock market with him.
Hugged me goo
