Things never settled. They just grew accustomed to my money.

Brent didn’t become grateful. He became entitled.

He treated my transfers like air—something he didn’t have to notice to keep breathing.

Then one Sunday, I came back from a work trip and found my suitcase sitting in the hallway.

Brent stood there with his arms crossed, chin lifted like he was trying on authority.

“You can’t keep living here,” he said. “You’re thirty-four. It’s pathetic.”

I blinked. “Brent… I pay the mortgage.”

He laughed—loud, sharp. “Yeah, because you’re a parasite,” he said. “You cling to this house so you can pretend you’re needed.”

The word hit like a slap.

My mother appeared behind him, wringing her hands, eyes flicking between us. I waited for her to stop him. To say, That’s enough.

Instead, she whispered, “Naomi, please don’t fight. Brent’s stressed.”

Stressed.

I looked at her. “He just called me a parasite,” I said quietly.

Mom’s voice turned tight with anxiety. “You always make things worse.”

That was when it became clear—the rule I had been living under: Brent could insult me, demand space, take credit, take money—because he was the son who stayed. I was the daughter who paid.

My throat tightened. “So you’re choosing him,” I said.

Mom didn’t respond.

She didn’t need to.

I went to my room, packed one bag, and left the keys on the counter.

I didn’t yell. I didn’t announce I was done paying. I didn’t leave a dramatic message.

I just walked away.