Simon’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. It was a warning. He didn’t shout or throw a punch; he simply set the grocery bags down with terrifying precision. He walked past my father, whose grip on my arm loosened instantly under Simon’s cold stare, and gently pulled our daughter from my mother’s arms. He placed her safely behind his legs.
“Get out,” Simon said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the heavy weight of finality.
“We are family!” my sister screeched, clutching the granite island like she owned it. “We have rights to this property!”
Simon pulled out his phone. “You have broken and entered. You have assaulted the homeowner. I am pressing charges in exactly thirty seconds,” he said, his thumb hovering over the dial button. “And since I saw the slap… I suggest you run.”
They didn’t run, but they scrambled. The threats turned to slurs, then faded as their car screeched away down the coastal highway. Simon locked the door, threw the ’emergency’ key into the trash, and held a bag of frozen peas to my cheek.
We sat in the kitchen of SeaGlass, trembling not from fear, but from the adrenaline of severance. The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it was safe.
The Moral: We never spoke to them again. It cost us our past, but we kept our peace. We learned the hard way that “Family” isn’t defined by blood or DNA, but by respect. If they have to break you to claim they love you, they don’t love you—they just want to own you. Sometimes, the most expensive thing you can buy is your own freedom, but it is worth every penny.
