I didn’t scream.
I didn’t even cry.
Something inside me had gone strangely quiet.
For years, I had believed that if I behaved better, worked harder, complained less, or made my parents proud, they might eventually treat me the way they treated Claire.
I had carried her bags.
Completed chores without arguing.
Accepted their jokes.
Endured their insults.
And convinced myself that one day, if I was good enough, they’d finally see me as a son worth loving.
But standing in that freezing station, I understood something no fourteen-year-old should have to learn.
My parents knew I was frightened.
They knew I was alone.
They knew I had no money or reliable way to get home.
And they still thought it was funny.
I looked toward the station doors.
Then back at the empty platform.
I could have spent the rest of the night waiting for people who had already
