When my parents demanded that I start paying rent for the basement I had turned into my sanctuary, they never anticipated it would lead to my escape—and ultimately, their regret.
Growing up, I always felt like the black sheep of the family. My parents treated my younger brother, Daniel, and me very differently, and it was painfully obvious. When I was 17, we moved into a two-bedroom house, and instead of Daniel and me sharing a room like most siblings, my parents decided he deserved the large, fully furnished bedroom upstairs. I, on the other hand, was relegated to the unfinished basement.
While Daniel’s room was bright and spacious, filled with new furniture and a gaming setup, I was left with whatever discarded items they could find in the garage. I still remember the day they showed me my new “room.”
Mom gestured to the cold, concrete basement as if it were some kind of prize. “Elena, isn’t this exciting? You’ll have so much space down here!” she said with an overly enthusiastic smile.
I glanced around at the bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, the cobwebs in the corners, and the stale, musty smell. “Yeah, super exciting,” I muttered, trying to mask my disappointment.
Dad clapped me on the back. “That’s the spirit, kiddo! Maybe we can fix it up later.” But, of course, that “later” never came.
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