It was his birthday.
Thirty.
The house was full of people who looked successful. Expensive cars outside. Loud voices. Polished smiles.
I parked down the street.
Walked in with a small gift.
An old watch. Restored. The kind his grandfather once admired.
He barely looked at it.
Then he said, in front of everyone, that I should stop acting like I belonged there.
Like I had anything to do with that house.
I reminded him, calmly, that I built everything he stood on.
That’s when he lost it.
He pushed me first.
Then came the hits.
I didn’t fight back.
I didn’t raise my voice.
I just counted.
Because with every blow, something inside me shut down.
Not anger.
Clarity.
When he finished, he looked like he had won.
I wiped my mouth.
Looked at him.
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