Chapter 7 - MOVING BOXES IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT
Standing on the back patio with my heart pounding, I dialed the only person who had looked at me
in the emergency room and seen a human being instead of a liability.
Eric answered on the second ring. “Amber? Are you okay?”
“Eric,” I said, tears finally breaking free, though my voice remained hard. “Can you help me? I need to get out of here tonight.”
Within twenty minutes, Eric’s battered Honda Civic pulled up to the curb. He didn't ask questions; he killed the engine, hopped out, and met me by the side door where I stood with two large garbage bags stuffed with my clothes, my laptop, and my important documents. As we loaded the bags into his trunk, my father threw open the front door, shouting into the night.
“Amber! If you walk out that door, don’t ever expect a dime from us again! You’re cutting yourself off from this family!”
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I stopped with my hand on the passenger door handle. I looked back at my father silhouette framed by the harsh porch light, standing beside the woman who had watched me suffocate and called it drama.
“That’s the first true thing you’ve said all week, Dad,” I whispered. I got into the car, and Eric pulled away from the curb, leaving the house of glass far behind in the rearview mirror.
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