“I love him. I loved him before the accident. I’m not leaving him because he can’t walk.”
My mother’s expression hardened. “Love won’t pay bills. Love won’t lift him into a wheelchair. You don’t understand what this life means.”
“I understand enough,” I said. “He would do the same for me.”
She folded her hands. “Then it’s your decision. But if you stay, you do it without us. No support. Not financially, not at all.”
I stared at her. “You’d abandon your only child for this?”
The next day, my college fund was gone.
“We won’t fund this mistake,” my father said.
The argument went nowhere. I cried, I shouted—they remained calm and distant.
Finally, my mother said, “It’s him or us.”
My voice shook, but I answered, “Him.”
I packed a bag.
My father handed me my documents. “If you want to be an adult, act like one.”
I stayed two more days. The silence hurt more than anything they’d said.
