Chapter 2 - The Shockwave
"Olivia! Stop right there!" Mom screamed, her chair scraping violently against the hardwood floor as she bolted upright.
I didn't stop. I walked down the short hallway, my boots clicking firmly. Every step felt lighter, as if a physical weight were peeling off my shoulders with every inch of distance I put between myself and that kitchen.
"You can't just leave!" Rachel yelled, her voice screeching into a high register of panic. "Olivia! What am I supposed to do about the daycare tomorrow? I don't have a ride!"
"Call Mark," I called back over my shoulder, not even pausing as I reached the front door. "Or use the Uber app. I hear it works wonders."
"Olivia Jane!" Dad’s voice boomed from the kitchen, heavy with patriarchal fury. He rarely used my middle name unless he was about to deliver a lecture on family duty. I heard his heavy footsteps pursuing me down the hall, but by the time he reached the foyer, I already had my hand on the brass doorknob.
"You walk out that door, and you are turning your back on your sister when she needs you most," Dad said, standing at the edge of the hallway, his face flushed, his chest heaving. "Is a piece of metal really worth destroying this family?"
I paused, turning around slowly to look at him. "It wasn't about a piece of metal, Dad. It was about respect. You all sat in that room and looked at me like I was a resource to be harvested. You didn't ask how my week was. You didn't ask how I afforded the new car. You just saw something shiny belonging to Olivia and immediately figured out how to give it to Rachel."
"We are a family, Olivia! We share!" Mom cried out, coming up behind Dad, her eyes damp with tears that I now recognized as purely theatrical.
"No," I replied firmly. "I share. Rachel takes. Julian watches. And you and Dad facilitate. That’s not a family. That’s a parasite-host relationship, and I am officially done being the host."
I opened the front door. The cool evening air hit my face, refreshing and sharp, clearing the stagnant scent of roasted chicken and manipulation from my lungs. The porch light illuminated my two cars parked in the driveway. The new one, a sleek, midnight-blue crossover, gleamed under the artificial light. Behind it sat my faithful old sedan, spotless and ready for a journey it would now never take with Rachel behind the wheel.
"If you drive away, don't expect to come back for Thanksgiving!" Mom shouted after me, stepping out onto the porch. "Don't call us when you need help!"
I couldn't help but laugh out loud at that. "Mom, when was the last time I called you for help? When I broke my wrist two years ago, I drove myself to the ER because you told me Rachel had a headache and you couldn't leave her. Don't worry about Thanksgiving. I'll make my own plans."
I walked down the concrete steps. Julian had come out onto the porch now, his hands shoved in his pockets, his smirk completely gone, replaced by a look of sheer disbelief. He hadn't expected me to actually rebel. None of them had. For thirty years, I had been the reliable one, the quiet one, the one who swallowed her pride and her own desires to keep the peace.
I unlocked the new car, the lights flashing a cheerful amber response. I climbed into the driver’s seat, slamming the heavy door shut, effectively muttering out the muffled screams of my family still standing on the porch. Rachel had come out now, gesturing wildly, her face contorted in anger.
I started the engine. It purred to life flawlessly. I shifted into reverse, carefully backed out of the long driveway, and parked on the street. Then, I got out, walked to the old sedan, unlocked it, and started it as well. Luckily, I had brought both sets of keys because I had planned to drive the old car over and have Julian drive me back. Since Julian was currently glaring at me from the porch like I had stolen his birthright, I would have to manage this differently.
I locked the old sedan, leaving it running safely on the public curb, intending to call a local flatbed towing company I trusted to haul it back to my apartment complex's secure lot. I wasn't going to leave it anywhere near my parents' house where they might try to "borrow" it with a spare key they thought they could find.
As I sat back in the driver's seat of my new car, my phone began to vibrate violently in the center console.
The first text was from Rachel: You are a selfish, cold-hearted monster. I hope you're happy knowing my kids are going to suffer because you care more about leather seats than your own blood.
The second was from Mom: Please come back inside. Your father’s blood pressure is spiking. Let's just talk about this calmly. We can find a compromise.
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Compromise. To my mother, a compromise meant I gave up 75% of what I wanted instead of 100%.
I put the phone on "Do Not Disturb," dropped it into the cup holder, and drove away. As the tail lights of my new car faded down the suburban street, I felt a strange, intoxicating sensation spreading through my chest. It wasn't guilt. It was freedom. But as I would soon learn, a family like mine doesn't let their golden goose walk away without a vicious, dirty fight.
