Page 65 of Letting Go

“I came here,” I say, “to be honest. To set boundaries. But don’t mistake that for weakness. I am done carrying you two. I am done shrinking myself to make you more comfortable. If you want my respect, start acting like you deserve it.”

And then I do what I should’ve done years ago, when I realized even their love came with a prize.

I walk past them, down the hallway, and knock on

Keira’s door.

Not for their sake.

But for hers.

Because I realized that she may not be the villain I made her out to be. I knock, soft at first. Then again, louder. “Keira? It’s me.”

Silence.

I press my ear to the door. Nothing. No music, no movement. Just eerie stillness that scares me.

“Keira,” I say again, lower now, trying to thread warmth into my voice even though my hands are shaking. “Please. Just open the door. I don’t want anything from you. I just... I need to see that you’re okay.”

I hear it then, footsteps, before the door clicks open.

Not a dramatic swing. Just a crack, wide enough for a pair of haunted brown eyes to peek through. She’s thinner. Her cheekbones are sharper than they should be. There’s a stain on the hem of her oversized T-shirt, and her hair is pulled into a messy bun that clearly wasn’t made for aesthetics, just convenience. Or survival.

She looks like a girl who’s been unravelling quietly for weeks, and no one noticed the sound.

I swallow around the knot in my throat. “Hey.”

Her lip wobbles. “Why are you here?” she asks, voice hoarse. Not defiant. Just tired. Like she’s bracing herself for another blow.

“I came to talk to Mom and Dad,” I say. “And to see you.”

She lowers her gaze. “Why? You hate me.”

“No,” I say, because I promised myself no more lies. “I don’t hate you. I was angry.”

She blinks hard, like she can’t believe my words. “What changed?”

“I listened to you,” I answer. “To the voicemails you left me over the past year.”

Her shoulders curl in like she’s shrinking beneath the weight of it. Shame. Guilt. All of it.

“You kept them,” she says, like it’s a statement, not a question.

My throat tightens.

“I had no idea it was that bad,” I say softly, like the words might crack if I push too hard. Like she might. Like I might.

Keira gives a tiny shrug, the kind that says she’s used to people not knowing. Used to swallowing things too big for her body, just to survive.

She gestures vaguely toward the room, an apology for the mess or maybe just the chaos of her life, and I step inside. I take the desk chair, and she leans against the windowsill like she needs the glass to hold her up.

“It wasn’t so bad at first,” she starts, voice raw and shaky. “I mean, it was bad but bearable. You know... like Mom’s whole ‘I just care too much’ thing. And Dad, with his little guilt bombs.” Her mouth twists. “But when I left for college, they got worse. Dad would call every week and lecture me about my future. Mom started showing up at my dorm with care packages. She’d talk to my roommates, my RA, my professors. It was humiliating.”

My jaw clenches, but I say nothing. I let her talk. For once.

“I got a formal letter from housing,” she adds. “They said I was ‘disruptive to the living environment.’ Me. Because of her.”

A beat. Then: “I didn’t even do anything.”

---