My outburst is followed by a shocked silence. I've never spoken to her this way before, never challenged her constant stream of "helpful" criticism.
"I'll call back when you're less emotional," she says finally, her voice tight.
"Don't bother unless you're ready to actually support me," I reply. "I'm done with the negativity. I deserve better." I end the call before she can respond, my hand shaking slightly, but my resolve is firm.
I stare at my phone for a long moment, stunned by my assertiveness. Standing up to my mother has been a dream scenario for years, one I've played out in my head but never had the courage to enact.
Until today.
Before I can process this shift, my phone rings again. I expect it to be my mother calling back to scold me for my "attitude," but instead, Brad's name flashes on the screen.
My instinct is, again, to ignore it, but something—perhaps the lingering adrenaline from standing up to my mother—makes me accept the call.
"What do you want, Brad?" I ask without preamble.
"Well, hello to you, too," he says, the familiar condescension in his voice instantly putting my teeth on edge. "I'm calling about the furniture."
"What furniture?"
"Our furniture. From the apartment. You took everything."
I blink, momentarily confused. Where has he been the past few days that he’s just calling me about this now? "I took my stuff, Brad. Things I bought."
"The couch was ours. So was the dining table."
"No, Brad. They were mine. I paid for them."
"We were living together," he says as if explaining something to a child. "What was yours was ours."
"That's not how it works when only one person pays for everything." I can feel my patience thinning. "I bought that couch. And the dishes. And the dining table. Check your bank statements if you don't believe me."
"You're being unreasonable," he says. "Adam has a chipped orbital bone thanks to your hockey player's tantrum, and now I'm stuck taking care of him in an empty apartment."
The image of Adam and Brad playing house in what was once my home is so absurd I almost laugh. "First of all, he's not 'my' hockey player. Second, I give exactly zero shits about anything related to Adam. And third, if you need furniture, go buy some. You can use all the money you saved by living off me for four years."
"I can't believe you're being so petty about this," Brad says. "It's just stuff."
"Exactly. It's just stuff. Stuff that I bought with my money while you were freeloading."
"I was working on my dissertation!"
"And how's that going?" I ask sweetly. "Making progress now that you have to pay your own bills?"
His silence is answer enough.
"I have to get back to work," I say, a surge of satisfaction flowing through me. I've carried the crushing weight of my dental school loans alone for years while Brad contributed nothing—not even emotional support. Just endless critiques and expectations while I worked to exhaustion to keep us afloat. "Don't call me again unless it's to apologize for cheating on me and abusing me financially for years. And even then, I probably won't answer."
I hang up, a current of joy flowing through me. First, my mother, now Brad, and I'm on a roll today.
Maybe moving out of Alder's was exactly what I needed to find my backbone.
By the time I return to my apartment that evening, I'm exhausted but strangely energized. Standing up for myself has left me feeling stronger and more centered. I look around the sparse space with new eyes. It's not much, but it's mine. A blank canvas I can fill however I choose, without compromise.
I unpack a few more boxes, arrange my books on a shelf, and hang some framed prints I've had since dental school—small touches that begin to transform the studio from an anonymous space into my home.
My phone buzzes with a text from Sarah:
Coffee tomorrow? Some things you should know.
