And now, my sister—who had never sacrificed a day in her life, who had married into wealth and lived halfway across the world—was swooping in to play the fun, rich savior. “You’re seventeen,” I said, my voice dropping to a low, deeply angry whisper. “You are a child.

And she is a manipulative coward.” “I’m going,” he insisted, though he looked suddenly very small. “You can’t keep me here.” “Watch me,” I replied, my voice steady and completely devoid of the panic I had felt just moments before. I gripped the passport tightly in my hand.

“You are not getting on that plane tomorrow. And if Sarah wants to play this game, she can speak to me directly.” I walked out of the room, slamming the door behind me. I walked straight to the kitchen, grabbed a pair of heavy kitchen shears, and cut his passport straight down the middle.

It was a drastic, perhaps illegal move, but I was completely consumed by a mother’s rage. I dropped the pieces into the trash can. Then, I picked up my phone and dialed London. The phone rang three times before my sister picked up, her voice light and falsely sweet.

“Hello?” “The flight is canceled, Sarah,” I said, my voice dropping to a register of pure, unadulterated venom. “And if you ever—ever—contact my son behind my back again, I swear to God I will make you regret it for the rest of your life.” I hung up before she could speak.

The house was dead quiet again. The bags remained packed in the other room, the ticket was useless, and the trust between a mother and her son was shattered on the floor. I sat alone in the dark kitchen, the slow, suffocating sorrow settling deeply into my bones.

He was still here, but I had already lost him.