Chapter 7 - The Friday Midnight Run
At 11:30 p.m. on Friday, my phone buzzed with an alert from the security cameras I had installed on the exterior of the Oak Street house three years ago.
I opened the app on my tablet and watched the live feed.
The driveway was illuminated by the harsh white glare of the floodlights. A rented U-Haul truck was backed up to the garage door. Melissa and her teenage son were tossing cardboard boxes, designer clothes, and expensive toys into the back of the truck.
My father stood on the porch, wrapped in his old wool robe, his shoulders hunched as he watched his daughter pack her life away in the middle of the night. My mother stood beside him, her hands covering her face, her shoulders shaking with silent, dramatic sobs.
Melissa didn't look at them. She looked angry, throwing things into the truck with a violent, resentful energy. She had spent five years building a parasitic kingdom in that basement, and it had taken less than a week for the foundation to crumble.
"She’s actually leaving," Laura said, leaning over my shoulder to watch the screen.
"She had to," I said. "Melissa is a predator, Laura. But predators are cowards at heart. The moment they realize the host is no longer willing to be drained, they move on to find an easier target."
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We watched as the U-Haul truck finally pulled out of the driveway, its tail lights disappearing down the dark, rainy street.
My father remained on the porch for a long time, staring at the empty driveway. He looked smaller than he ever had—not like the roaring patriarch of my childhood, but like an old man who had finally realized that the pride he had built was nothing more than a house of cards funded by the son he had rejected.
