Claire strode down a swanky hall, wood gleaming, perfume sharp, her blazer fresh, nerves buzzing under cool marble. This interview was her shot, rehearsed to death, but her gut twisted. A crisp woman waved her in, eyes doubting her youth at 28. Claire stood tall, entering a plush room—grand desk, city lights streaming—and met three bigwigs. The main guy held her résumé, voice silky, “Twenty-eight—light on years.” She didn’t waver, “Years don’t count—grit does. Since 18, I’ve clawed my way up, no cushion.” She stared them down, air shifting, until a woman smiled, and the boss shook her hand, “You’re hired.” Claire beamed—she’d done it.
Home hit with a laugh, door kicked shut, Lisa raising wine, “Told ya!” Claire shed heels, “They grilled my age.” Lisa winked, “Now you’re set—dream gig, fat check.” Claire grabbed water, “Took hustle,” sorting mail—then froze. A thick envelope, her parents’ address, a decade dormant.
Lisa frowned, “What’s that?” Claire rasped, “Them.” She spilled—18, birthday morning, bags ready, “You’re out,” they’d said. Lisa gasped, “Brutal.” Claire tore it open—hospital bills, thousands, her dad’s name. Rage bubbled. “Never again,” she muttered, driving to their worn house—same paint, swing swaying. Her mom burst out, sobbing, hugging; Claire stood rigid. “Dad’s where?” “Hospital—rough,” her mom croaked.
Claire sneered, “Rough like ditching me?” Her mom flinched, “We followed you—your job email, so proud.” Claire snapped, “No pride for you. Why now?” “Dad blocked me,” her mom said, “He’s restricted, pay the bank.” Doubt crept in. At the bank, the teller paused, “Not medical—private.” Truth slammed—fraud. She raced back, flung the door, parents at cake, hale. “You faked it,” she growled. Her dad shrugged, “We shaped you—owe us.” Her mom hissed, “Stay.” Claire smirked, “Bye,” and stormed out, door crashing, free at last.
