My birthday was supposed to be quiet, maybe even ordinary. Instead, it became the day I found myself standing outside my own home with three bags of belongings and no clear idea where I was supposed to go next.
There had been tension in the house for weeks. Family conversations stopped when I entered the room. Doors closed a little too quickly. I told myself they were planning something, or that everyone was simply tired from months of stress. I wanted to believe there was still some kindness left in the people around me.
That morning, my older brother came into my room without warning. He did not say happy birthday. He pushed three plastic bags toward me and told me I had to leave. According to him, the house was no longer mine to live in, and if I stayed, they would call the authorities.
Before I could make sense of what he was saying, my mother appeared behind him. She did not defend me. She handed me a one-way bus ticket and made it clear that, as far as the family was concerned, I was no longer welcome.