The blood from my split lip hit the concrete before my son even stopped screaming. My father loomed over me with his fist still clenched, and my mother wore a satisfied smirk, looking as though she had just claimed a victory.

The next morning, the reality of my situation set in. I had a few hundred dollars in my checking account, a bruised face, and a son who needed stability. But for the first time in my life, I wasn't afraid. The spell they had cast over me since childhood was broken.

I needed legal counsel. I reached out to a legal aid clinic that specialized in domestic abuse cases. I was assigned to Sarah Jenkins, a shark of a lawyer with sharp eyes and zero tolerance for nonsense.

We met in her office while Leo watched cartoons on my tablet. I showed her the video. I showed her the police report. Then, I pulled out my banking records.

"They demanded two thousand, five hundred dollars," I told Sarah. "They said it was for rent, but I've never paid rent. I pay the utilities, the groceries, and I paid the property taxes last year when they claimed they were going to lose the house."

Sarah frowned, adjusting her glasses. "Let's do some digging. Why $2,500 exactly?"

Within forty-eight hours, Sarah’s private investigator found the answer. My parents weren't broke because of the economy. They were broke because my father had a severe gambling addiction, and my mother was covering for him by taking out high-interest payday loans. The $2,500 was exactly the amount they owed a local loan shark who had threatened to put a lien on their cars.

"They were going to sacrifice your safety and your son's well-being to cover their gambling debts," Sarah said, sliding the financial reports across the desk to me.

Rage, hot and pure, flared in my chest. All those years they made me feel like a burden. All those times they told me I owed them for taking me in. I had been funding their toxic lifestyle, and the moment I said no, they tried to beat it out of me.