Chapter 6 - The Move
Moving out of my parents’ house on crutches with a fractured tibia is logistically equivalent to executing a military retreat through a swamp.
By noon, Lisa had arrived in her catering van—which she had thoughtfully cleared of charcuterie boards and wine glasses—accompanied by one of her line cooks, a massive, gentle giant named Marcus who looked like a retired NFL linebacker.
Marcus carried my suitcases down the hallway in one hand as if they weighed nothing at all, while I navigated the front steps with my crutches, carefully balancing my braced leg.
My mother watched from the living room window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, looking through the glass with an expression of icy disapproval. She didn't come outside to say goodbye. She didn't offer to help pack my toiletries. She chose the coward’s way out—hiding behind the blinds and waiting for me to disappear so she wouldn't have to face the reality of what her own favoritism had driven away.
Dad, to his credit, met me at the driveway by the passenger door of Lisa’s van.
“Cath,” he said quietly, holding out a sealed white envelope. “Take this. For... you know. Medical expenses. Or whatever you need.”
I looked at the envelope. I could see the edge of a hundred-dollar bill sticking out.
“Keep it, Dad,” I said softly, shaking my head. “Pay off some of Ryan’s catering bill. He’s probably going to need it.”
Dad flinched as if I had struck him. He slowly lowered his hand, his shoulders slumping under an invisible weight. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I really am.”
“I know you are, Dad,” I said, softening my tone just a fraction. “Call me in a few weeks. When you figure out how to have a conversation that doesn't revolve around Ryan.”
I swung myself into the passenger seat of Lisa’s van, pulling my awkward, heavy leg in after me with a wince. Marcus slammed the van door shut, hopped into the driver’s seat, and within minutes, we were rolling down the suburban street, leaving the house of golden-child tyranny in the rearview mirror.
Lisa’s guest house was located about fifteen minutes away in a quiet, leafy neighborhood near downtown Denver. It was a charming, converted carriage house with wide doorways, hardwood floors, and—most importantly—zero stairs.
When Marcus carried my bags inside and set them down in the bright, airy bedroom, I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for twenty-eight years.
“Welcome to Chateau de Sanity,” Lisa announced, tossing a set of brass keys onto the bedside table. “No brothers allowed within fifty yards. Violators will be fed to the catering staff.”
I laughed, sinking gratefully onto the edge of the plush queen-sized bed and unstrapping the top buckle of my leg brace to let my skin breathe. “I think I love you.”
May you like
“I know you do. Now, rest that leg. Tonight, we are ordering the greediest, most unapologetic delivery pizza in Denver, and we are opening a very expensive bottle of wine that I am billing directly to my own business expenses.”
For the first time in weeks, the knot of tension in my chest completely unspooled. I wasn't cooking for ten people. I wasn't listening to my mother lecture me about my lack of domestic enthusiasm. I was safe, I was surrounded by someone who actually valued me, and for the first time in my life, I was entirely on my own terms.
