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The Ultimatum

That night, Dad called me into the living room.
He was sitting in his armchair — his throne — beer in hand, eyes bloodshot. Claudia stood beside him like a smug little queen. The pay slip lay on the table between them.

“So,” he said, voice low, “you’ve been lying to us.”

I didn’t answer.

“You’ve been earning all this,” he waved the paper, “and still giving us the same amount? Do you think we’re fools?”

“I earn that money,” I said, trying not to shout. “I’ve been supporting this house for years. You don’t work. Claudia doesn’t pay a thing. I deserve to keep something for myself.”

He laughed — a cruel, hollow laugh that made my skin crawl. “Deserve. You think you deserve anything? Let me tell you how this will go, son. From now on, eighty percent of your salary goes to your sister. She’s going to the best university in the country. The other twenty percent goes to me — for my expenses. It’s that simple.”

I stared at him.
I honestly thought he was joking.

But he wasn’t.

The rage that had lived quietly inside me for years started to rise. It burned through my chest, hot and electric. And then, suddenly, something snapped — not in anger, but in clarity.

I laughed.
Loud. Hard. Almost hysterical.

Dad frowned. “What’s so funny?”

I wiped a tear from my eye. “You,” I said. “Both of you. You’ve spent years treating me like a machine that spits out cash. You call me selfish when I keep a little for myself. Well, guess what? I’m done. I’m taking one hundred percent of my salary — and I’m leaving. You can both pay your own bills. It’s that simple.”

Dad’s face twisted, first in disbelief, then fury. “You ungrateful brat! You think you can just walk out? You owe us. You owe me. Without me, you’d be nothing.”

I stood up, calm, almost serene. “Without me, you’d have been homeless years ago.”

He shouted something else — I don’t even remember what. I went to my room, pulled out my suitcase, packed my clothes, my documents, my laptop. He tried to block the door, but I wasn’t the same scared boy anymore. I pushed past him.

And just like that, I was free.

My First Night Alone

That first night in my new apartment felt like breathing after being underwater.
It was small — one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen barely big enough to turn around in — but it was mine. I bought a real bed, not the old creaking one I’d grown up with. A flat-screen TV. A coffee maker. I even took a trip to the beach one weekend just because I could.

Every time I paid a bill with my money, it felt like victory.
Every time I cooked dinner in silence, it felt like peace.

For months, I didn’t hear from them.
And I didn’t miss them.

Part 2 – The Price of Freedom

Three months passed before I heard from them again.
Three whole months of peace.

I’d built a routine I actually liked: work, gym, cooking something new every weekend, sometimes a movie by myself, sometimes meeting a friend from the office for a beer. My apartment smelled like coffee and clean laundry instead of stale alcohol. I could open the windows and not hear anyone yelling my name for money.

I thought they’d finally learned to live without me.
But I should have known better.

The Call

It was a Tuesday night, around ten. I was brushing my teeth when my phone buzzed. Unknown number.
Normally, I wouldn’t have answered. But something told me I should.

“Hello?”

“Estabban.”
The voice was shaky, trembling.
It was Claudia.

For a second, I thought I’d imagined it. She didn’t sound like herself — no arrogance, no mockery. Just fear.

“Claudia? What’s wrong?”

“Please,” she whispered, and I could hear her trying not to cry. “Please, you have to help us. They’re going to evict us.”

I frowned. “What?”

“The landlord gave us until the end of the week. We haven’t paid rent in two months. Dad said he’d handle it, but he hasn’t been able to work much. I don’t know what to do.”

I stayed quiet, toothbrush still in my hand. Part of me wanted to hang up. The other part — the one that had carried them for almost a decade — wanted to hear her out.

“So?” I said finally, my voice colder than I intended. “What does that have to do with me?”

There was a pause, then a soft sob.
“Estabban, please. My salary isn’t enough. Dad—Dad’s been sick, and he—”

“Stop,” I interrupted. “Let me get this straight. You and Dad have been living off my money for years. When I left, you both called me selfish. Now you want me to bail you out?”

Her voice cracked. “I know I wasn’t the best sister. I know I said things I shouldn’t have. But please, this isn’t about pride anymore. If we don’t pay this week, we’ll be on the street.”

And then I heard him.

In the background, his voice — hoarse, loud, and desperate.
“Give me the phone, Claudia!”

“Dad, don’t—”

“Give it to me!”

A few seconds of shuffling. Then that voice I’d known all my life, the one that used to fill me with fear.

“Estabban,” he barked. “Listen to me carefully.”

“Hello, Dad,” I said flatly.

“Do you think you can just walk away from your family and leave us to starve? You’re selfish. We gave you a home, food, a roof. And now that you’re making a fortune, you forget where you came from?”

I almost laughed.
“A home? You mean the one I paid for? The food I bought? The roof I maintained? Don’t make me laugh, Dad.”

“Watch your tone,” he growled. But there was something new in his voice — weakness.

I continued, calm and slow. “You want to talk about selfish? Let’s talk about you. You quit working the moment Mom started sending money. When that stopped, you made me your bank. You turned my paychecks into beer. You turned my life into your vacation.”

“That’s enough!”

“No, it’s not,” I said sharply. “You called Claudia your princess and me your servant. You both treated me like a fool, and now you want me to fix the mess you made?”

He went silent for a moment. Then, softly — too softly — he said, “You have money. I saw that check. You could help us. Your sister still wants to go to university. She deserves a future. You can’t just abandon us.”

That word — abandon — made something inside me finally break.

I laughed. Not out of humor, but disbelief. “You remember what you said that night, Dad? ‘Eighty percent for Claudia, twenty for me. It’s that simple.’ Well, now I’m telling you — get jobs, pay your own bills, survive. It’s that simple.”

His voice rose to a roar. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that! Without us, you’d be nothing!”

I smiled bitterly. “Without me, you’d still be sitting in that armchair surrounded by empty bottles, waiting for someone else to save you.”

There was silence.
Then, quietly: “We’re your family, Estabban.”

“No,” I said. “You’re parasites. And parasites learn to survive when the host is gone.”

“Don’t hang up!” Claudia’s voice cried suddenly, trembling and raw. “Please! I know we were horrible. But we have nothing now. Nothing. You can’t do this to us.”

But I could. And I did.
I ended the call.

The Silence That Followed

For a long time, I just sat there staring at my reflection in the dark TV screen.
My hands were shaking, not from guilt, but from the strange lightness of it all.

I’d said everything I’d ever wanted to say. Every truth I’d buried for years had finally been spoken out loud. I thought I’d feel guilty. Instead, I felt free.

That night I slept like a child. No nightmares. No voices. No guilt.

The next morning, I made coffee, opened the balcony door, and let the sunlight in.
The air smelled different. Clean.
It hit me — this was what peace tasted like.

Mom’s Call

It lasted three weeks. Three peaceful, beautiful weeks.

Then Mom called.

I recognized her voice instantly, even though it had been months since we last spoke.
“Estabban,” she said, her tone cold and sharp. “I just got off the phone with your father. What on earth have you done?”

I sighed. “Hi, Mom. Good to hear from you too.”

“Don’t be sarcastic with me,” she snapped. “Your father and sister are in a terrible situation. They’ve been evicted. They’re staying with a friend for now. And you — with all that money — you just left them to rot?”

I closed my eyes. “They’re not homeless because of me, Mom. They’re homeless because Dad drank away every peso I gave him and Claudia never worked a day in her life.”

“That’s not fair,” she said. “They’re your family.”

“They were never my family,” I said quietly. “They were my responsibility. There’s a difference.”

“Don’t talk like that,” she said, voice trembling with anger. “I raised you better. I told you to take care of them.”

“And I did,” I said. “For ten years, Mom. Ten years of paying every bill, every meal, every party, every bottle of beer. You have no idea what it’s like to come home from work and see them laughing at you, calling you boring, lazy, worthless — while you’re the only one keeping the lights on.”

“That’s enough, Estabban.”

“No, it’s not enough!” I shouted, finally. “Do you know how many times I wanted to leave? How many times I stayed because of your words — don’t leave them alone? You tied me to them with guilt. You let me believe that suffering was the same as love.”

She went quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was small. “So what now? You just… cut them off?”

“Yes,” I said. “I cut them off.”

“Then I’m disappointed in you,” she said. “I thought I raised a man, not a stranger.”

That hurt more than I expected.
But I didn’t let her hear it. “Then maybe you should have raised a son, not a provider.”

And I hung up.

That was the last time we spoke.

The Consequences

Two months later, I heard from a coworker — someone whose cousin lived near my old neighborhood.
“Hey, isn’t your dad the guy who drives a taxi now?”

I blinked. “What?”

“Yeah. My cousin says he’s been driving around in this beat-up yellow cab. Long hours. Looks rough.”

I just nodded.
I didn’t know how to feel.
Pity, maybe. Sadness. But not guilt.

Claudia, I heard, had found a full-time job at the same store where she’d once worked part-time. She now paid the bills for a small apartment they’d rented on the outskirts of town. No more parties. No brand-name clothes. No late nights at the club. Reality had finally caught up.

And me?
I kept moving forward.

A Year Later

One year later, I was Regional Manager at the company. My salary was more than I’d ever dreamed possible. I traveled to other cities, sometimes even other countries. I met people who saw me for my work, not what I could give them. I built friendships that weren’t based on obligation.

My apartment slowly filled with the things I’d always wanted: books, plants, a new bike, a framed map of all the places I planned to visit. On weekends, I sat on my balcony, drank coffee, and watched the sunrise.

Freedom, I realized, doesn’t come from money. It comes from boundaries.
It comes from saying no — even to the people who share your blood.

Sometimes, I’d catch myself thinking about them — about Claudia’s tears, Dad’s shouting, Mom’s disappointment. And for a second, guilt would creep in. But then I’d look around — at my quiet apartment, my life, my peace — and remind myself that guilt had built their comfort.
Now it was building mine.

The Message

One morning, almost a year to the day since I’d left, I got an email from Claudia.
Just one line.

“I hope you’re happy. We finally understand what you went through.”

No request for money. No insults. No guilt.
Just that.

I stared at the message for a long time.
Then I typed back:

“I am. I hope someday you will be too.”

And that was the end of it.

Epilogue – It’s That Simple

People sometimes ask me what freedom feels like.
I tell them it’s the quiet sound of your own heartbeat when no one is asking for anything.
It’s coffee on a Sunday morning. It’s a paycheck you get to keep.
It’s laughter that isn’t forced.

It’s peace.

My father once told me:

“Eighty percent for your sister. Twenty for me. It’s that simple.”

He was right about one thing.
It is that simple.

Because now, when I look in the mirror, I see a man who finally chose himself.

And for the first time in my life, I’m not ashamed to say it:

I’m free.