PART 2: By the time Nolan calls for the twenty-seventh time, you are sitting at your kitchen island with your phone face down, a glass of water beside you, and a calm so cold it almost scares you.
For years, every call from your family had trained your body to react. Your chest tightened before you even answered. Your mind started calculating numbers before anyone said hello. Rent. Car insurance. Medical bills. Credit cards. Groceries. Emergency repairs. Another “temporary” problem that somehow always became your permanent responsibility.
But this time, you let the phone ring.
Then ring again.
Then stop.
Ten seconds later, your mother calls.
You stare at her name glowing on the screen. Mom. Three letters that used to undo you. Three letters that made you drive across Chicago in snowstorms, cancel dates, postpone vacations, empty savings accounts, and tell yourself that being needed was almost the same as being loved.
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