Part 2: The Ghosting of the Scapegoat
I didn’t slam the car door. I didn’t speed out of the neighborhood, tires squealing. I drove back to my cramped, one-bedroom apartment in absolute, profound silence. I didn’t turn on the radio. I just listened to the rhythmic hum of the tires against the asphalt.
When I unlocked my apartment door, the space felt different. It was small, the rent was too high, and the plumbing in the bathroom always hummed, but for the first time, it felt entirely mine.
I sat down on the cheap rug in the center of my living room floor. I pulled my phone from my purse. The screen glowed in the dim light.
I opened my contacts.
Contact: Mom.
My thumb hovered over her name. I thought of the daily text messages demanding to know where I was, the passive-aggressive comments about my weight, the constant comparisons to Madison.
Block Caller.
Contact: Dad.
I thought of the financial lectures from a man whose car I had to pay for. I thought of the cold, dismissive look in his eyes when he asked why he would invest in me.
Block Caller.
Contact: Madison.
I thought of the $100,000 check. I thought of her squeal. I thought of the lifetime of entitlement I had been forced to cater to.
Block Caller.
I didn’t stop there. I opened Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn. I went through my aunt, my uncle, the family friends who acted as Elaine’s flying monkeys. Block. Block. Block.
