behind every summer

Chapter 23

Chapter 23

I sat on the edge of my bed, my knees drawn up to my chest, my head resting on my feet as I tried to steady my breathing. But the sobs kept coming, waves of emotion that refused to be stifled no matter how hard I tried. My room was dim, the soft glow of the evening light filtering in through the curtains, casting shadows across the floor. Two large suitcases sat by the door, packed and ready, as if they were mocking me—reminding me that this chapter of my life was ending, whether I was ready for it or not.

I couldn't stop crying. Every breath I took felt heavier than the last, and with each exhale, it was as if the events of the day crashed down on me all over again. I had been humiliated, torn apart by the very people who should have cared for me the most. My parents, who hadn't seen me in months, didn't even offer a glance of affection. Instead, they had looked at me with cold eyes, as if I were a stranger. No, worse than a stranger—someone unworthy of even a sliver of their compassion.

I wiped at my face with the back of my hand, but the tears kept falling, stinging my eyes and blurring the already dark room around me. My heart ached with a deep, relentless pain, a wound that I knew wouldn't heal easily. The memory of my father's voice echoed in my mind, sharp and cold.

"Why are you here, Dashwood? You shouldn't be here. You should be living on the streets like a beggar. And why are you wearing that maid's dress? You're not a woman!"

His words felt like knives, stabbing into me again and again, each one deeper than the last. I had known my father was harsh, but the venom in his voice—the way he had looked at me like I was nothing—was something I hadn't been prepared for. It had shattered whatever fragile hope I had held on to, the hope that maybe, just maybe, they would miss me, that they would be glad to see me after all this time.

But they weren't. They hadn't been.

The visitors had left shortly after, their polite smiles and murmured words of discomfort still fresh in my mind. They wanted no part in a "problematic family." They didn't want to witness the spectacle that had become my life, the embarrassment of my existence. Even the helpers had avoided me, their eyes lowered, their steps quick, as if my presence was something to be ashamed of.

I hugged my legs tighter, trying to hold myself together as the pain threatened to tear me apart. The thought of leaving this house, the only place I had known for months, only made it worse. This mansion had been my prison and my sanctuary all at once. Yes, I had been a helper here, working in the background, unseen and unappreciated. But it had been a place where I could hide from the world, where I didn't have to face the reality of my fractured family and my own deep insecurities.

And now I was leaving it all behind.

The suitcases seemed to loom larger in the dim light, a reminder of the decision I had made. I was leaving, but not on my own terms. I was being pushed out, cast aside, like I didn't belong here—like I had never belonged anywhere. The thought of stepping out of this room, of leaving behind the only place that had offered me any semblance of stability, filled me with dread.

I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready to face the world outside, not after everything that had happened today. Not after my parents had made it clear that I was a disappointment, someone who wasn't even worthy of their love, let alone their respect.

The humiliation of the day replayed in my mind over and over again. The moment my father had stood up in front of everyone, his voice booming with disdain. The looks on the faces of the Board members, their silent judgment hanging in the air like a dark cloud. I had felt so small, so insignificant. My entire existence had been laid bare, and I had been found wanting.