The Birthday That Changed Everything
Part One: Cold Water and Colder Hearts
On the morning of my 18th birthday, I woke up to my mom pouring cold water over my face. “It’s time to man up and move out,” she said, her voice flat and final. I sat up instantly, gasping, water dripping down my neck and soaking into my shirt.
My stepdad Mark stood in the doorway, arms crossed, my belongings already stuffed into two duffel bags and three black garbage bags at his feet. “Wait—what?” I managed, wiping water from my eyes. “What’s happening?”
“They’ve always been cruel, but I never expected this,” I thought, my mind racing.
“But I’m your son,” I said aloud, hating how desperate I sounded. My mom laughed—sharp and bitter. “You’ve been nothing but a burden since your dad died.
All that money wasted on therapy, listening to you cry about nightmares for years.”
Mark nodded approvingly, picking up my bags. “We kept you fed and housed for eighteen years. That’s more than most would do.”
Before I could process what was happening, they shoved the bags into my arms and literally pushed me toward the front door.
I stumbled down the porch steps, my bags hitting the concrete. The door slammed behind me. I stood there in the cold morning air, still in my pajamas, bags scattered around my feet, trying to understand how my life had just been thrown away like garbage.
I didn’t even bother fighting. I guess part of me had already given up years ago. After hours of walking aimlessly and sitting in parks trying to pray, I found myself at a homeless shelter downtown.
My hands shook as I filled out the intake forms, each question feeling like an admission of complete failure: Name. Age. Reason for homelessness.
That’s when my phone buzzed. My parents had unblocked me just to twist the knife deeper. Mom: “Stop calling family saying you’re homeless.
You’re embarrassing us.”
Mark: “At least your dad had the decency to die in Afghanistan. “
I lost it right there in that plastic chair. I just broke down sobbing, my whole body shaking.
The counselor—this tired-looking woman named Sarah with kind eyes—touched my shoulder gently. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
I showed her the texts, unable to speak. She read them, her expression hardening.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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