At our Thanksgiving dinner, my parents told me to move out. “You’re 26—time to be independent.” My brother smirked. As I grabbed my bags and reached the door, Mom called out, “Darra, you’ll still pay our bills, right?” The room went cold when I said, “No!”

Back then, I thought she meant gravy.

That evening, Megan and I ate takeout on the floor because my dining table hadn’t arrived.

My phone lit up with a message from Mom.

*Hope you’re settling in. The new place is smaller, but we’re managing.*

I read it, then put the phone down.

For once, I didn’t feel compelled to fix anything.

A few minutes later, Megan handed me the takeout container.

“Want the last piece?”

I looked at the food, then at Grandma’s old gravy boat sitting on the counter.

“Yes,” I said, smiling.

“I think I do.”

At twenty-six, my parents had told me it was time to become independent.

They’d been right about one thing.

I just hadn’t realized how much freedom would come from finally believing I deserved a home of my own.