He didn’t shout. He didn’t argue. He barely explained.

He just said I had to leave.

My brother’s channel was finally taking off. He needed my room for streaming. That was the whole reason.

My mother closed my suitcase over packs of newborn diapers and muttered that I should stop acting like a victim. It wasn’t a tragedy. I was exaggerating. I always did.

I stepped out into the street holding my newborn son.

They thought they were clearing space.

What they really did was spark something they couldn’t control.

While I was still in the hospital, stitches fresh and my body trembling from surgery, my father walked in wearing that serious expression he used for “important conversations.” He didn’t even glance at my baby.

He said that once I was discharged, I needed to figure out where I would stay.

Confused and foggy from medication, I asked what he meant. I lived at home.

He folded his arms and calmly explained that my brother, Lucas, needed my bedroom. His streaming career was growing. Sponsors were interested. Contracts were coming. His work was an investment. Mine? We’d see.

I looked down at Noah, two days old, and felt something tighten inside me.

I told him I couldn’t even bend properly, that the doctor had ordered rest. He brushed it off. Doctors exaggerate. I was a mother now. I needed to be stronger.

A few hours later, my mother arrived with a bag. She said they’d packed my important things. The rest was in storage. I asked if they’d already emptied my room.

She sighed, irritated. “Don’t start. It’s just surgery. I’ve had worse. Lucas needs quiet and good lighting. With a baby crying all day, that’s impossible. Be reasonable.”

The night before giving birth, Lucas had proudly shown me his Twitch stats—donations, followers, clips of him yelling at the screen. I’d smiled, exhausted.

When I was discharged, my mother pushed my wheelchair. I thought we were going home. Instead, we stopped in front of a rundown apartment building in a worn-out neighborhood.

They said I could stay there temporarily. It belonged to a coworker. I’d pay something small. I shouldn’t claim they weren’t helping me.

Climbing stairs without an elevator, fresh stitches pulling at my skin, was agony. My mother carried the baby bag. My father walked behind us on his phone. No one offered support.

Inside: damp walls, stale smoke, a mattress on the floor, a shaky table, one plastic chair.