"Get out!" My father screams at the top of his lungs. He grabs my mom and hurls her out of the house before turning to me. In a swift motion, he grabs me and throws me out, making me crash onto the ground beside her.
I look up at him in disbelief, my entire body trembling and my heart shattering as we lie there together. His new wife, a woman in towering high heels, strides out carrying a pile of our clothes. With a flick of her wrist, she tosses them onto us, the fabric landing like a heavy blanket of shame.
She glares at us with the disdainful look of someone who believes we're beneath her, her eyes scanning us as if we're nothing more than dirt.
"I never want to see either of you again," my father barks, his voice dripping with spite. He turns to my mom, his expression a mask of cruelty. "Good thing you were a stay-at-home mom, Maureen. Everything here belongs to me. You have nothing. I can kick you out without a second thought."
A cunning smirk spreads across his lips, as if he's relishing the pain he's inflicting on us.
Wendy, his new wife, disappears back inside and reappears with two suitcases. With a triumphant grin, she throws them at our feet. The suitcases burst open, scattering our belongings across the driveway—a chaotic reminder of everything we've lost.
I stare at our clothes strewn across the ground, scattered like remnants of a shattered life. Around us, people pass by, their eyes lingering on the scene, while neighbors peek through their windows. It seems this is a spectacle too good to ignore, a show they'd rather watch in silence than intervene.
"Dad, please. This is my home, our home," I cry out, tears streaming down my face. I glance at my mother, her expression a mix of disbelief and sorrow. The pain etched on her features goes beyond the physical hurt from being pushed down; she looks heartbroken, betrayed, and utterly disappointed. She gazes at my father as if struggling to comprehend the reality of his actions.
"This is my house," my father declares, his voice cold and unyielding. "I don't want either of you in my house. My new wife wants to be the only one here, and our future children should be the only kids in this house. You two need to leave and make space for my new family."
Bitter laughter escapes me as the weight of his words sinks in. We are no longer welcome here. The house I grew up in, filled with memories and laughter, is now a place from which I'm being expelled. My biological father, the man who raised me, no longer wants me as his daughter. He's tossing me aside as if I never mattered.
How quickly he's replaced us.
I wipe my tears and pull my mother up from the ground, wrapping my arms around her for support. As I help her stand, I gently wipe the tears from her cheeks. Turning to my father, I let anger and pain seep into my voice. "You'll regret this."
But my dad just laughs, pulling his new wife—the twenty-two-year-old he just married—close to him. He wraps his arm around her waist, a display of triumph.
"I highly doubt that," he replies, a mocking smile twisting his lips, as if to say he's happier and better off now.
I can't believe this. It feels like a nightmare. Did my father, Kennedy Volkov, really turn his back on us overnight? He tricked my mother into signing papers—divorce papers—then used his money to finalize everything without her knowledge. Now he's married another woman and brought her home today, kicking us out as if we never mattered. Yes, he married her this morning.
"I am your daughter," I manage to say, my voice barely a whisper. Is this really the man I grew up with? The one I saw as my superhero, my rock? The man I thought would always protect me, take care of me, and love me unconditionally?
But my words seem to bounce off him. In fact, seeing my mother and me in tears appears to bring him joy. "She can make me another daughter, Lisa," he replies, his tone mocking and taunting. "You're not irreplaceable. You're not special."
Bitter laughter escapes me. That's a wound I don't think I can heal.
I open my mouth to respond, but my mom cuts me off. "It's okay, Lisa," she says, her voice pained as she locks eyes with me, fighting back her own tears. She takes my hand, holding it tightly. "This is no longer our home. He has made his choice."
She turns to my father, who still clings to Wendy, and offers him a small, bitter smile. "We will leave, Ken. It's okay. We'll go. And I pray I never see you again."
With her words echoing in my mind, I bend down to gather our clothes, shoes, and other belongings strewn across the ground. I stuff them into our two suitcases—one for me and one for my mom. As I collect our things, I can't help but think of the items left behind: my phone, my laptop, my mom's jewelry—everything that represents our lives. But I don't dare ask for them; neither does my mom. We just want to escape this place.
My mom takes her suitcase, and I grab mine. As we turn to leave, rolling our bags behind us, we hear Wendy's mocking laughter. "Bye, Maureen. Bye, Lisa." When I glance back, her devious smirk makes my blood boil.
I clench my fists, feeling a surge of anger and hatred—mostly toward my father, the one who betrayed us.
My mom squeezes my hand, urging me to keep walking, and I swallow my retort, knowing there's no point in engaging with her. We leave our home, uncertain of where we're going or what lies ahead.
ʚ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ
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