My name is Evan. Six months ago, at twenty-seven, I walked out of my parents’ house for what I was certain would be the last time. There was no dramatic door slam, no final shouted retort. I didn’t even pack much—just a duffel bag containing a few changes of clothes and my laptop. I was simply done.
And yet, here I am, sitting in my new apartment, staring at my phone as it buzzes incessantly on the coffee table. My parents’ numbers flash across the screen, a relentless, almost comical reminder of a life I thought I’d escaped.
