Chapter 2: The Illusion of Harbor
I hail from a tight-knit family. Or, at least, that was the fabricated narrative I had believed for thirty-four years.
My parents, Levette and Bowen, had weathered thirty-six years of matrimony. They projected the image of the quintessential supportive patriarch and matriarch—the sort who always secured front-row seats at piano recitals and dialed your number at 7:00 AM on your birthday.
My older brother, Landis, was thirty-two, chronically single, and permanently entrenched in his childhood bedroom, which he had converted into a multi-monitor gaming command center. My younger sister, Bryony, was twenty-eight and freshly married. She operated under the delusional confidence that her eighteen-month union had bestowed upon her a doctoral degree in marital psychology.
When the reality of my impending divorce became undeniable, I dialed my mother first. I wept into the receiver, outlining Caspian’s betrayal, the impending legal filings, and the terrifying ambiguity of our financial future. I explained that I just needed a temporary harbor—a few weeks of breathing room to stabilize my children while the lawyers disentangled our assets. I asked if I could bring the kids and occupy the guest quarters.
