I turned eighteen on a Tuesday.simo No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends

My blood ran cold.

My father stopped when he saw me.

For several seconds, nobody moved.

His face went pale.

Then his expression hardened.

“What is he doing here?”

Richard answered calmly.

“He was invited.”

My father’s eyes narrowed.

“You have no right.”

Margaret Ellis stood.

“Actually, Daniel, we do.”

My father looked around the room.

Then back at me.

“You.”

I said nothing.

He took a step toward me.

“You’ve been looking for me?”

“No.”

His expression shifted.

“Then how—”

“I didn’t find you,” I said quietly.

“You found me.”

He stared at me.

My stepmother stepped forward.

“Nathan, this is ridiculous. Your father has been worried sick about you.”

I almost laughed.

“Worried?”

She gave me a pleading look.

“You were eighteen. You needed to learn responsibility.”

I nodded.

“You’re right.”

My father looked surprised.

I continued.

“So let’s talk about responsibility.”

Richard placed a folder on the table.