He didn’t yell.
He didn’t argue.
He didn’t explain much.

He simply said I had to leave.

Just like that. No buildup.

My brother’s channel was finally growing. He needed my room for his streams. That was it.

My mother zipped up my suitcase over the baby’s diapers with a sharp motion and muttered, annoyed, that I should stop playing the victim. That it wasn’t a big deal. That I was exaggerating, like always.

I walked out into the street with my newborn son in my arms.

They thought they had solved a problem.

In reality, they had just ignited something that could no longer be put out.

I still had fresh staples in my skin when my father opened the hospital room door with that serious expression he only used when he wanted to “have a real talk.” He didn’t even look at my son, sleeping beside me.

He said that as soon as I was discharged, I should start thinking about where I was going to stay.

I blinked, dazed from the painkillers. I asked what he meant—where else would I stay? I lived at home.

He crossed his arms and calmly explained that my brother needed my bedroom. His channel was taking off. He was going to stream seriously now. There were sponsors, contracts, opportunities. What he was doing was an investment.

Mine… we’d see.

I looked at Bruno—barely two days old, his tiny face still marked from the C-section—and felt something inside me tighten.

I told him I couldn’t even bend down, couldn’t lift weight, that the doctor had insisted on rest. He replied that doctors always exaggerate and that now I was a mother. I needed to toughen up.

Two hours later, my mother came to the hospital with a gym bag. She said she’d brought some clothes and that they had already packed my important things. The rest was in storage.

My face burned when I asked if they had emptied my room. She sighed, tired, and told me not to make drama. A C-section was just surgery. She’d been through worse and hadn’t complained. My brother was finally taking off and needed space, silence, and good lighting. I, with the baby, would be crying all day.

It was logical.

I remembered the night before labor, when Sergio—my younger brother—had proudly shown me his Twitch numbers, donations, clips of himself shouting at the camera. I had smiled, exhausted, pretending interest.

When I was discharged, my mother pushed the wheelchair while I held Bruno against my chest. I thought we were going home.