It was the way her mother looked at her when she said it that told her she wasn’t going to be getting any sort of sympathy, or any sort of help.
If her father had found out he wouldn’t have been so kind to have only given her a look.
It was also the way her mother spoke in a different tone after the fact, as if her whole person had been taken over by a new, methodical, fake one.
If her father had been in the same room he wouldn’t bother changing his persona, he would be himself and that would be frightening enough. She had loved that about him.
Tucking away her things into her oversized overnight bag she realized that this may be the very last time she laid her eyes on her bed, on her dresser, on her closet full of clothes and cat hair. She would miss the cat hair most of all. At least it, though annoying, still clung to her.
Her mother watched over her like a hawk as she packed away everything she could fit in the bag, leaving behind her books and trophies and old vintage rock posters.
She was also leaving behind her family, her non-responsive father in the bed upstairs and her suddenly changed mother, the latter wanting no part in her life anymore. Her father would feel the same, only much worse, if he were capable.
As she walked down the stairs grasping her plane ticket, her mother right on her tail, she thought about the good times within the home, though they were few and far between.
Her mother did not hug her, she barely even looked at her before she made her way out the door.
This is what she got for abandoning her dying father.
This is what she got for getting pregnant.
This is what she got for leaving.