D199.The Thanksgiving turkey was still warm when my father glanced across the table and calmly announced that I should move out.

The days following the meeting at Mr. Vance's office felt like a slow-motion demolition.

Vanessa had dumped Brent within twelve hours of the dinner disaster.

According to Wren, Vanessa hadn't just broken off the engagement; she had driven over to the house with two of her brothers, packed everything she had moved into my former bedroom, and publicly eviscerated Brent on the front lawn for everyone on Elm Street to hear. She called him a pathetic, jobless con artist living off his sister's charity.

Brent’s response to the humiliation was predictable: he turned his rage inward, directing it at the only person left in the house who couldn't fight back.

Wren.

It was a Thursday afternoon when my phone pinged with a voice memo from my sister. I hit play. Through the tiny speaker came the sound of slamming doors and Brent’s furious screaming.

*"You told her, didn't you?! You little snitch! You sent Cassidy the budget sheet! You ruined my life! Dad’s going to jail because of you!"*

Then came Mom’s frantic voice trying to separate them, followed by the terrifying sound of wood splintering as Brent kicked Wren’s bedroom door.

I didn't hesitate. I grabbed my car keys, ran out of my office, and sped across town toward Elm Street.

When I pulled up to the curb, the front yard looked like a war zone. Brent's truck was gone—repossessed by the lender. In its place were three black trash bags sitting by the curb, stuffed with Vanessa’s discarded home decor.

I stormed up the front steps, pushed the front door open without knocking, and walked inside.

The house was freezing. The heat was off, and the air smelled faintly of stale takeout and damp carpet.

Brent stood in the hallway, red-faced, wearing sweatpants and an unwashed hoodie. Mom was sitting on the stairs, sobbing into an apron. Dad was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is she?" I demanded.

Brent whirled around. When he saw me, his eyes flashed with venomous hatred. "Look who decided to show up! The prodigal daughter! Did you come to watch us freeze to death, Cassidy?"

"Where is Wren?" I repeated, stepping directly into his personal space. I was shorter than him, but at that moment, I had never felt taller.

"She locked herself in the bathroom," Brent spat, stepping toward me menacingly. "Because she's a traitor. Just like you. You think you’re so smart with your corporate job and your lawyer? You destroyed this family!"

"You destroyed this family three years ago when you flushed four hundred thousand dollars down a toilet!" I fired back, my voice echoing off the peeling wallpaper. "You stole Dad's settlement! You sat in the basement and let me pay your bills while you played the big-shot millionaire!"

"I was trying to build something!" he screamed, his spittle hitting my cheek. "I was trying to make sure we didn't have to live in this dump forever!"

"No, Brent," I said, wiping my cheek with the back of my hand. "You were being lazy, greedy, and arrogant. Exactly what you’ve been your entire life."

The bathroom door at the end of the hall clicked open. Wren slipped out, wearing her heavy winter coat, carrying a single duffel bag. Her eyes were red, but her chin was held high.

"Cassidy," she whispered.

"Get your things, Wren," I said gently. "You're coming with me."

"She’s not going anywhere!" Brent yelled, stepping between us. "She's seventeen! Dad is her legal guardian! If you take her, I’ll call the cops and report you for kidnapping!"

"Call them," a deep voice boomed from the front entrance.

We all turned. Standing in the open doorway was Marcus Vance, accompanied by a uniformed county sheriff’s deputy.

Brent instantly took two steps backward, his swagger evaporating into thin air. Mom let out a fresh wail from the staircase.

"Brent Miller?" the deputy asked, stepping into the foyer with a clipboard. "I have a court summons for you regarding the fraudulent operation of Apex Horizon Holdings, as well as an emergency protective order filed on behalf of Wren Miller."

Mr. Vance stepped forward, his trench coat unbuttoned, looking every inch the formidable veteran litigator. "Furthermore, Arthur and Eleanor Miller have been served with an official Notice of Default and Intention to Extinguish Life Estate. You have until December thirty-first to vacate these premises."

Dad emerged from the kitchen, looking haggard, holding a cup of lukewarm instant coffee. "Vacate? Marcus, you can't throw us out in the middle of winter! Where are we supposed to go?"

"You have twenty days to find alternate accommodations," Mr. Vance said without an ounce of pity. "Unless, of course, you wish to pay the full mortgage arrears, the back property taxes, and repay the one hundred and twenty thousand dollars your daughter spent covering your legal obligations under false pretenses."

Dad looked at Brent. Brent looked at the floor.

There was no money. There was no secret fund. The house of cards had completely collapsed.

I walked over to Wren, took her duffel bag from her shoulder, and wrapped my arm around her. "Let's go home, Wren."

As we walked out to my car, Mom ran out onto the porch, clutching a cardigan around her shoulders against the biting wind.

"Cassidy! Please!" she cried out. "Don't do this! We're your parents! Family forgives! Family stays together!"

I paused at the car door, looking back at the woman who had brought me into the world—the woman who had calmly penciled my name onto an eviction budget.

"Family doesn't bleed each other dry, Mom," I said softly.